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CDFk'RIGHT DEPOSfC 



THESE TIMES 



By LOUIS UNTERMEYER 

First Love 

Challenge 

" and Other Poets" 

Heinrich Heine: Three Hundred and 
Twenty-five Poems 



THESE TIMES 



BY 



LOUIS UNTERMEYER 




NEW YORK 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

1917 






Copyright, 19x7, 

BY 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 



Published March, 1917 



APR -7 1917 



i' 



CI,A460225 



? 



Wo 
ROBERT FROST 

POET AND PERSON 



For the privilege of reprinting many of the 
poems in this volume, the author wishes to 
thank the editors of The Century, The Yale 
Review, The Masses, The Forum, Collier's, 
The Smart Set, Everybody's, The Bellman, 
McClure's, Good Housekeeping, Contemporary 
Verse, The Poetry Review, The Independent, 
The Flame, Poetry: A Magazine of Verse, 
The New Republic, The Seven Arts, and 
other magazines. 



vii 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THESE TIMES xii 

THE WAVE 

Swimmers 3 

Faith 7 

On the Palisades 8 

To the Child of a Revolutionist . . . . i8 

Magic 20 

Highmount 25 

Immortal 28 

To a Weeping Willow 30 

"Still Life" 32 

Beauty 34 

A Side Street 36 

A Man 38 

Comrades 42 

Wind and Flame 43 

Lovers 45 

The Road 54 

An Old Maid 56 

Romance 58 

The Wave 60 

THIRTEEN PORTRAITS 

The Dead Horse 67 

Portrait of an American 68 

Portrait of a Poet 69 

Portrait of a Child 70 

Portrait of a Dilettante 71 

Portrait of a Patriot 73 

ix 



X Contents 

PAGE 

Portrait of a Woman 73 

Portrait of a Chopin-Player and his Audience 74 

Portrait of a Jewelry Drummer .... 75 

Portrait of Three People 76 

Portrait of a Supreme Court Judge . . . 77 

To a Self-confessed Philosopher ... 78 

To a Gentleman-Reformer 80 

HAVENS 

Havens 83 

Driven 84 

The Sleepers 85 

Home 88 

Victories 89 

Jonquils 95 

Bacchanal 96 

Joe-Pyeweed • • 97 

A Winter Lyric 99 

Spring 100 

The Robber . . 102 

The Victor 103 

Truce 104 

DICK 

Concerning Heaven . . . . / . .111 

Concerning God . . . . . . .113 

Concerning Truths . . . ;*- ,. . .114 

Concerning a Storm 117 

He Tells a Story 119 

Rocks and Ocean . , . ... .123 

BATTLE-CRIES 

"Wake, God, and Arm" 127 

The Laughers 128 

The Victory of the Beet-Fields .... 133 



Contents xi 

PAGE 

To a War Poet 135 

The Old Deserter 139 

Cell-Mates 143 

Lines to a Pomeranian Puppy Valued at 3,500 

Dollars .; 146 

Broadway Silhouette 148 

YOUTH MORALIZES 

To My Mother 151 

In the Night 152 

Poetry 153 

Strangers 155 

The Mysteries 156 

The Poet 157 

The Youth Moralizes 158 

A Portrait 161 

An Old Song 162 

A Singer 164 

Roses 165 

Nineteen and April 166 

In a Minor Key 168 

Creation 169 

A Glee for February 170 

March Mood 172 

October 174 

In Absence 177 

Plaza Square 178 

TWO REBELS 

Eve Speaks 183 

Moses on Sinai 194 

REVEILLE . 205 



THESE TIMES: 

" This is my hour, the sum of tireless ages; 

These times are those for which all Time 
prepared. 

And as I come, the old accounts are squared; 
Creation smiles, accepting me as wages. 
Not to make good the dream of fools and sages, 

A pat millennium, a world ensnared; 

But with great boasts that none has ever 
dared, 
I come: a challenge hurled at creeds and cages. 

" This is my hour, mine these arrogant days. 
This rushing insolence, this vehement blaze 

Sweeps through me as the sea sweeps 
through a breaker. 
Intolerant of custom and control. 
Aroused more for the contest than the goal, 

I am thrown forth, a menace — and a maker." 



XU 



THE WAVE 



SWIMMERS 

I TOOK the crazy short-cut to the bay; 
Over a fence or two and through a hedge, 
Jumping a private road, along the edge 
Of backyards full of drying wash it lay. 
I ran, electric with elation. 
Sweating, impetuous and wild 
For a swift plunge in the sea that smiled, 
Quiet and luring, half a mile away. 
This was the final thrill, the last sensation 
That capped four hours of violence and 

laughter : 
To have, with casual friends and casual jokes. 
Hard sport, a cold swim and fresh linen 

after . . . 
And now, the last set being played and over, 
I hurried past the ruddy lakes of clover; 
I swung my racket at astonished oaks. 
My arm still tingling from aggressive strokes. 

3 



4 Swimmers 

Tennis was over for the day — 

I took the leaping short-cut to the bay. 

Then the swift plunge into the cool, green 

dark — 
The windy waters rushing past me, through 

me; 
Filled with a sense of some heroic lark, 
Exulting in a vigor clean and roomy. 
Swiftly I rose to meet the feline sea 
That sprang upon me with a hundred claws, 
And grappled, pulled me down and played 

with me. 
Then, tense and breathless in the tightening 

pause 
When one wave grows into a toppling acre, 
I dived headlong into the foremost breaker; 
Pitting against a cold and turbulent strife 
The feverish intensity of life. . . 
Out of the foam I lurched and rode the wave. 
Swimming, hand over hand, against the wind ; 
I felt the sea's vain pounding, and I grinned 
Knowing I was its master, not its slave. 
Oh, the proud total of those lusty hours — 



The Wave 5 

The give and take of rough and vigorous tus- 
sles 
With happy sinews and rejoicing muscles ; 
The knowledge of my own miraculous powers, 
Feeling the force in one small body bent 
To curb and tame this towering element. . . 

Back on the curving beach I stood again, 
Facing the bath-house, when a group of men. 
Stumbling beneath some sort of weight, went 

by. 

I could not see the hidden thing they carried; 

I only heard : " He never gave a cry — " 

" Who's going to tell her ?— " " Yes, and they 

just married — " 
" Such a good swimmer, too "... and then 

they passed; 
Leaving the silence throbbing and aghast. 

A moment there my buoyant heart hung slack. 
And then the glad, barbaric blood came back 
Singing a livelier tune ; and in my pulse 
Beat the great wave that surges and ex- 
ults , , , 



6 Swimmers 

Why I was there and whither I must go 
I did not care. Enough for me to know 
The same unresting struggle and the glowing 
Beauty of spendthrift hours, bravely showing 
Life, an adventure perilous and gay; 
And Death, a long and vivid holiday. 



FAITH 

What are we bound for ? What's the yield 

Of all this energy and waste? 
Why do we spend ourselves and build 
With such an empty haste ? 

Wherefore the bravery we boast? 

How can we spend one laughing breath 
When at the end all things are lost 
In ignorance and death? . . . 

The stars have found a blazing course 

In a vast curve that cuts through space ; 
Enough for us to feel that force 

Swinging us through the days. 

Enough that we have strength to sing 

And fight and somehow scorn the grave; 
That Life's too bold and bright a thing 
To question or to save. 
7 



ON THE PALISADES 

And still we climbed 

Upward into those sheer and threatening cliffs, 

Storming against the sky. 

As though to stop our impudent assault, 

The sun laid great hot hands upon our backs, 

And bent them down. 

There were no bluff, good-humored winds to 

push us on ; 
There were no shrubs to grasp, no staff to aid — 
Laughter was all we leaned on. . . 

We dared not turn to view the dizzy depth — 
and then, 

At last the height! . . . and the long climb 
over. 

And, laughing still, we drew long, panting 
breaths ; 

And our pulses jumped with a proud and fool- 
ish thrill, 

8 



The Wave 9 

As though we had gained not merely the top 

of a hill, 
But a victory. 

Up here, the gaunt earth seemed to sprawl, 

Stretching its legs beyond the cramping skies, 

And lie upon its cloudy back, and yawn. . . 

Rhythmical breezes arose. 

Like a strong man waking from sleep; 

Like the measured breathing of day. 

And the earth stirred and called us. . . 

An unseen path sprang from the undergrowth, 

And dodged among the bushes lightly, beckon- 
ing us on. 

Vine-snares and rocks made way for us ; 

Daisies threw themselves before our feet ; 

The eager little armies of the grass. 

Waving their happy spears, ran on beside 
us; 

And when we slackened, when we thought of 
resting. 

The running grasses stopped, the earth sank 
back into itself. 

Became a living pillow, a soft breast, 



lo On the Palisades 

And every branch held out its comforting 

arms. . . 
The winds pressed close, and, growing gentle, 

sang to us ; 
And so we sat beneath the mothering trees. 

Languor leaned down 

And, whispering peace, drew us into ourselves. 
And in the drowsy sunlight 
We mused, escaping from the clanging world ; 
Happy to sink in visions and soft fantasies 
For solace — and for strength; 
To dip into a dream, as into sleep, 
And wring new ardor from it, and rise re- 
freshed ; 
Irradiant, held by no soothing past, 
Blundering brightly on. 

Then, in an unseen flash. 

The air was sharp with energy again ; 

The afternoon tingled and snapped, electric 

with laughter. 
And he, our friend and lover, our buoyant, 

swaggering boy, — 



The Wave ii 

His soul as fiery as his flaming hair, — 
Began to sing this snatch of ancient rhyme 
Caught from the pickers in the cotton-fields : 

" Lord, He thought He'd make a man, 
(Dese bones gwine ter rise again.) 

Made him out er earth an' a han'ful er san\ 
(Dese bones gwine ter rise again.) 

" I know it; indeed, I know it, brudders; 
I know it. Dese bones gwine ter rise again. 

" Thought He'd make an 'umman too; 

(Dese bones gwine ter rise again.) 
Didn't know 'hackly what ter do. 

(Dese bones gwine ter rise again.) 

" Tuk one rib fum Adam's side, 
(Dese bones gwine ter rise again.) 

Made Miss Eve fer to be his bride. 
(Dese bones gwine ter rise again.)" 

Five hundred feet below us lay the world — 
The Sunday-colored crowds busy at play, 



12 On the Palisades 

The children, the tawdry lovers, and the far-off 
tremor of ships, 

Came to us, caught us out of the blurring vast- 
ness. 

As things remembered from dreams. . . . 

And still he sang, while we joined in with child- 
like mirth 

The deep, infectious music of a childlike race. 

" Sot *em in a g yard en rich an' fair; 

(Dese bones gwine ter rise again.) 
Tor 'em dey could eat watever wuz dere. 

{Dese hones gwine ter rise again.) 

" Fum one tree you mus' not eat; 

{Dese hones gwine ter rise again.) 
Ef you do, you'll have ter skeet! 

{Dese hones gwine ter rise again.) 

" Sarpint woun' him roun' er trunk; 

{Dese hones gwine ter rise again.) 
At Miss Eve his eye he wunk. 

{Dese hones gwine ter rise again.) ^ 



The Wave 13 

*' I know it; indeed, I know it, brudders; 
I know it — '' 

Like a blue snake uncoiled, 

The lazy river, stretching between the banks, 

Smoothed out its rippling folds, splotchy with 

sunlight, 
And slept again, basking in silence. 
A sea-gull chattered stridently; 
We heard, breaking the rhythms of the song. 
The cough of the asthmatic motor-boat 
Spluttering toward the pier. . . . 
And stillness again. 

" Lord, He come wid a 'ponstrous voice; 

(Dese bones gwine ter rise again.) 
Shook dis whole earth to its joists, 

(Dese bones gwine ter rise again.) 

"'Adam, Adam, war' art thouf 
(Dese bones gwine ter rise again.) 

* Yas, good Lord, Fs a-comin' now ' 
{Dese bones gwine ter rise again.) 



14 On the Palisades 

" ' Stole my apples, I believe — ' 
(Dese bone gwine ter rise again.) 

' No, Marse Lord, I 'speck 'twas Eve ' 
(Dese bones gwine ter rise again.)'' 

The little boat drew nearer toward the land, 
Still puffing like a w^heezy runner out of breath. 
And we could see, crowding its narrow decks. 
The little human midges — remote and so un- 

human ; 
Seeming to belong less to life than the fearless 

ants 
That swarmed upon the remnants of our lunch, 
Heedless of all the gods on whom they casually 

dared to climb. 
So far the people seemed ! . . . 
And still a faint stirring reached us ; 
A thin thread of music flung its airy filaments 

toward heaven, 
Where we, the happy deities, sat enthroned. 
Straining our ears we caught the slender tone, 
''Darling, I am growing old; silver threads 

among — " 
And then it broke. . . 



The Wave 15 

And over us rushed the warm flood of the 

human need. 
Out of that frayed, cheap song something 

thrust out 
And gripped us like a warm and powerful 

hand. 
No longer olympian, aloof upon our solemn 

eminence, 
We crumbled on our heights and yearned to 

them. 
The very distance had a chill for us. — 
What if, of a sudden, the boat should topple 

and plunge; 
And there should rise a confused crying of peo- 
ple, and the faint high voice of a child; 
And heads should bob in the water, and sink 

like rotten corks — 
And we, up here so helpless, 
Unhuman and remote. . . 

A twilight mist stole up the bay ; 
In a nearby clump a young screech-owl wailed ; 
A breeze blew strangely cold, and, with a covert 
haste, 



1 6 On the Palisades 

We gathered up our things, whistled a breath 

too loud, 
And took the path down to the earth we 

knew — 
The earth we knew, the dear and casual world 
Of sleep that followed struggle, struggle that 

called from sleep — 
The harsh, beloved, immortal invitation. 

And, as we walked, the song sprang up again ; 

And, as we sang, the words took on new 
power and majesty; 

The dying sun became a part of them. 

Gathering his fires in one last singing beam, 

In one bright, lyric death. 

The skies caught up the chorus, thundering it 
back 

From every cranny of the windy heavens ; 

And, rising from the rocks and silent waters, 

Hailing the happy energy as its own, 

The flood of life laughed with that gay convic- 
tion : 

I know it. Indeed I know it, brothers; 

I know it! These bones will rise again. . ., 



The Wave 17 

Lulled by no soft and easy dreams, 

Out of the crowded agonies of birth on birth, 

Refreshed and radiant, 

These bones will rise. 

Out of the very arms of cradling Death, 

These bones! 



TO THE CHILD OF A 
REVOLUTIONIST 

(Charles Epstein, April i, 191 5) 

Child, you were born with fighting in your 
blood, 
Your first breath was a struggle, sharp and 
swift; 
Yet from the tumult and the darkening flood, 
Child, you must lift. 

Splendid it is to hurl against the strong 

Bulwarks of ignorance a stronger stuff; 
Splendid to challenge prejudice and wrong — 
But not enough. 

Yes, when your angry faith defeats the foe; 
And, when the last, deep, thundering growl 
is stilled. 
With the same arms that stabbed and brought 
them low, 

Child, you must build ! 
18 



The Wave 19 

Yet you shall hear the soundless bugles call ; 

And there shall be fresh wars and no release. 
And you shall fight the hardest fight of all — 
Even in peace. 

There shall be little rest and great delight ; 
And, struggling still, your banner shall 
ascend, 
Battling for beauty — that exalted fight 
Which has no end. 



MAGIC 

We passed old farmer Boothby in the field. 
Rugged and straight he stood ; his body steeled 
With stubbornness and age. We met his eyes 
That never flinched or turned to compromise, 
And "Luck," he cried, ''good luck!" — and 

waved an arm. 
Knotted and sailor-like, such as no farm 
In all of Maine could boast of ; and away 
He turned again to pitch his new-cut hay. . . 
We walked on leisurely until a bend 
Showed him once more, now working toward 

the end 
Of one great path; wearing his eighty years 
Like banners lifted in a wind of cheers. 

Then we turned off abruptly — took the road 
Cutting the village, the one with the command- 
ing 

20 



The Wave 21 

View of the river. And we strode 

More briskly now to the long pier that showed 

Where the frail boats were kept at Indian 

Landing. 
In the canoe we stepped ; our paddles dipped 
Leisurely downwards, and the slim bark 

slipped 
More on than in the water. Smoothly then 
We shot its nose against the rippling current, 
Feeling the rising river's half -deterrent 
Pull on the paddle as we turned the blade 
To keep from swerving round; while we de- 
layed 
To watch the curious wave-eaten locks; 
Or pass, with lazy turns, the picnic-rocks. . . . 
Blue eels flew under us, and fishes darted 
A thousand ways; the once broad channel 

shrunk. 
And over us the wise and noble-hearted 
Twilight leaned down; the sunset mists were 

parted, — 
And we, with thoughts on tiptoe, slunk 
Down the green, twisting alleys of the Ken- 
nebunk, 



22 Magic 

Motionless in the meadows 

The trees, the rocks, the cows. . . 

And quiet dripped from the shadows 
Like rain from heavy houghs. 

The tree-toads started ringing 
Their ceaseless silver bells; 

A land-locked breeze came swinging 
Its censer of earthy smells. 

The river's tiny canon 

Stretched into dusky lands; 

Like a dark and silent companion 
Evening held out her hands. 

Hushed were the dawn's bravados; 

Loud noon was a silenced cry — 
And quiet slipped from the shadows 

As stars slip out of the sky. . . 

It must have been an hour more, or later, 
When, tramping homeward through the piney 
wood, 



The Wave 23 

We felt the years fly back; the brotherhood 
Of forests took us — and we saw the satyr! 
There in a pool, up to his neck, he stood 
And grinned to see us stare, incredulous — 
Too startled to remember fear or flight. 
Feeling the menace in the crafty night, 
We turned to run— when lo, he called to 

us! 
Using our very names he called. We drew 
With creaking courage down the avenue 
Of birches till we saw, with clearing sight, 
(No longer through a tricky, pale-green light) 
Familiar turns and shrubs, the friendly path, — 
And Farmer Boothby in his woodland bath ! 
The woods became his background ; every tree 
Seemed part of him, and stood erect, and shared 
The beauty of that gnarled serenity; 
The quiet vigor of age that smiled and squared 
Its shoulders against Time . . . And even 

night 
Flowed in and out of him, as though content 
With such a native element ; 
Happy to move about a spirit quite 
As old, as placid and as confident . . . 



24 Magic 

Sideways we turned. Still glistening and un- 
clad 
He leaped up on the bank, light as a lad, 
His body in the moonlight dripping stars. . . 

We went on homeward, through the pasture- 
bars. 



HIGHMOUNT 

Hills, you have answered the craving 

That spurred me to come; 
You have opened your deep blue bosom 

And taken me home. 

The sea had filled me with the stress 
Of its own restlessness; 
My voice was in that angry roll 
Of passion beating upon the world. 
The ground beneath me shifted; I was swirled 
In an implacable flood that howled to see 
Its breakers rising in me, 
A torrent rushing through my soul 
And tearing things free 
I could not control. 

A monstrous impatience, a stubborn and vain 
Repetition of madness and longing, of ques- 
tion and pain, 
Driving me up to the brow of this hill — 
Calling and questioning still. 
35 



26 Highmount 

And you — you smile 

In ordered calm ; 

You wrap yourself in cloudy contemplation 

while 
The winds go shouting their heroic psalm, 
The streams press lovingly about your feet 
And trees, like birds escaping from the heat. 
Sit in great flocks and fold their broad green 

wings. . . 
A cow bell rings 
Like a sound blurred by sleep, 
Giving the silence a rhythm 
That makes it twice as deep. . . 
Somewhere a farm-hand sings. . . 

And here you stand 

Breasting the elemental sea, 

And put forth an invisible hand 

To comfort me. 

Rooted in quiet confidence, you rise 

Above the frantic and assailing years ; 

Your silent faith is louder than the cries ; 

The shattering fears 

Break and subside when they encounter you. 



The Wave 27 

You know their doubts, the desperate ques- 
tions — 
And the answers too. 

Hills, you are strong; and my burdens 

Are scattered like foam. 
You have opened your deep, blue bosom 

And taken me home. 



IMMORTAL 

Death cannot keep me ; even when the dry 
Earth holds me warm, a rose-bush at my 
head. 

I shall not be content to loaf and lie 
Inactive in that strait and slothful bed. 



For soon the happy restlessness of life 

Shall pierce me, stir me, make me once again 

Part of the vigor and the freshening strife, 
Raised by the miracles of sun and rain. 



And when at length the grudging winters pass, 
Endowed with swift and splendid liberty, 

I shall go forth in rich and sturdy grass; 
Shall scent the clover, call the thirsting bee. 

28 



The Wave 29 

I shall be in the urge that bursts the pod, 

Pushing the sap along the stiffening tree; 
That gives the young branch leaves, that stabs 
the sod. . . 
The rose shall bloom more proudly — bearing 
me. 



All things shall feel and drink me unawares ; 

The scattering winds, the root that twists 
and strives ; 
The ant, the forest — all that builds and dares. 

And I shall live not one, but countless lives. 



TO A WEEPING WILLOW 

You hypocrite! 

You sly deceiver! 

I have watched you fold your hands and sit 

With your head bowed the slightest bit, 

And your body bending and swaying 

As though you were praying 

Like a devout and rapt believer. 

You knew that folks were looking and you 

were 
Quite pleased with the effect of it. 
Your over-mournful mien; 
Your meek and almost languid stir; 
Your widow's weeds of trailing green. 
Wearing a grief in resignation clad, 
You seemed so chastely, delicately sad. 

You bold, young hypocrite — . 
I know you now ! 

Last night when every light was out, 
30 



The Wave 31 

I saw you wave one beckoning bough 
And, with a swift and passionate shout, 
The storm sprang up — and you, you exquisite, 
You laughed a welcome to that savage lout. . . 
I heard the thunder of his heavy boots. 
And then in that dark, rushing weather. 
You clung together; 
Safe, with your secret in the night's great 

cover. 
You and your lover. 
I saw his windy fingers in your hair; 
I saw you tremble and try to tear 
Free from your roots 
In a headlong rush to him. 
His face was dim. 

But I could hear his kisses in the rain ; 
And I could see your arms clasp and unclasp. 
His rough, impetuous grasp 
Shook you and you let fall 
Your torn and futile weeds, or flung them all 
Joyfully in the air, 
As if they were 
Triumphant flags, to sing above 
The stark and shameless victory of love! 



"STILL LIFE" 

(For Lee Simonson) 

A BOWL of fruit upon a piece of silk: — 
Stiff pears and awkward apples, with the 

leaves 
A crude and evil-tempered sort of green. 
Harsh reds and screaming yellows, brilliant 

blacks, 
Savagely massed, with strong and angry skill, 
Against a furious, orange-colored cloth. 
A canvas rioting with love and hate; 
Colors that grappled, snarled and lashed the 

soul. . . 
Never have I beheld such fierce contempt, 
Nor heard a voice so full of vehement life 
As this that shouted from a bowl of fruit. 
High-pitched, malignant, lusty and perverse — 
Brutal with a triumphant restlessness 
And joy that cannot heal but laughs and 

stabs. . ., 

3« 



The Wave ' 33 

I never knew the man that did this thing, 
This bowl of fruit upon a piece of silk; 
And yet I know him better than I know my 
friends. 



BEAUTY 

You shall not lead me, Beauty — 

No, on no more passionate and never-ending 
quests. 

I am tired of stumbling after you, 

Through wild, familiar forests and strange 
bogs; 

Tired of breaking my heart following a shift- 
ing light. 

Beauty, you shall fly before me no longer; 
Smiling and looking back over your shoulder, 
Wanton, trickster, trifler with weak men; 
Demanding all and giving nothing in return 
But furious dreams and shattering visions. 

Beauty, I shall have you — 
Not in imagination only, but in the flesh. 
You will pursue me with untiring breath. 
You will press by my side wherever I go. 

34 



The Wave 35 

Even in the muddy squalor and the thick welter 

of ugliness 
You shall run to me and put your arms about 

me and cling to me; 
And, try as I will, you will never be shaken off. 

Beauty, I know you now — 

And knowing, I will thirst for you no longer. 

For I shall run on recklessly 

And you will follow after ! 



A SIDE STREET 

On the warm Sunday afternoons 
And every evening in the Spring and Summer 
When the night hurries the late home-comer 
And the air grows softer, and scraps of tunes 
Float from the open windows and jar 
Against the voices of children and the hum 

of a car; 
When the city noises commingle and melt 
With a restless something half-seen, half-felt — 
I see them always there, 
Upon the low, smooth wall before the church; 
That row of little girls who sit and stare 
Like sparrows on a granite perch. 
They come in twittering couples or walk alone 
To their gray bough of stone, 
Sometimes by twos and threes, sometimes as 

many as five — 
But always they sit there on the narrow coping 
Bright-eyed and solemn, scarcely hoping 
36 



The Wave 37 

To see more than what is merely moving and 

alive. . . 
They hear the couples pass; the lisp of happy 

feet 
Increases and the night grows suddenly 

sweet. . . 

Before the quiet church that smells of death 

They sit. 

And Life sweeps past them with a rushing 

breath 
And reaches out and plucks them by the hand 
And calls them boldly, whispering to each 
In some strange speech 
They tremble to but cannot understand. 
It thrills and troubles them, as one by one, 
The days run off like water through a sieve; 
While, with a gaze as candid as the sun, 
Poignant and puzzled and inquisitive. 
They come and sit, — 
A part of life and yet apart from it. 



A MAN 

(For My Father) 

I LISTENED to them talking, talking, 
That tableful of keen and clever folk, 
Sputtering . . . followed by a pale and balking 
Sort of flash whenever some one spoke; 
Like musty fireworks or a pointless joke, 
Followed by a pointless, musty laughter. Then 
Without a pause, the sputtering once again. . . 
The air was thick with epigrams and smoke; 
And underneath it all 

It seemed that furtive things began to crawl, 
Hissing and striking in the dark, 
Aiming at no particular mark, 
And careless whom they hurt. 
The petty jealousies, the smiling hates 
Shot forth their venom as they passed the 
plates, 

38 



The Wave 39 

And hissed and struck again, aroused, alert ; 
Using their feeble smartness as a screen 
To shield their poisonous stabbing, to divert 
From what was cowardly and black and mean. 

Then I thought of you, 

Your gentle soul, 

Your large and quiet kindness; 

Ready to caution and console. 

And, with an almost blindness 

To what was mean and low. 

Baseness you never knew; 

You could not think that falsehood was untrue. 

Nor that deceit would ever dare betray you. 

You even trusted treachery; and so. 

Guileless, what guile or evil could dismay you ? 

You were for counsels rather than commands. 

Your sweetness was your strength, your 

strength a sweetness 
That drew all men, and made reluctant hands 
Rest long upon your shoulder. 
Firm, but never proud. 
You walked through sixty years as through 

a crowd 



40 A Man 

Of friends who loved to feel your warmth, and 
who, 

Knowing that warmth, knew you. 

Even the casual beholder 

Could see your fresh and generous complete- 
ness, 

Like dawn in a deep forest, growing and shin- 
ing through. 

Such faith has soothed and armed you. It has 
smiled 

Frankly and unashamed at Death; and, like a 
child. 

Swayed half by joy and half by reticence, 

Walking beside its nurse, you walk with Life; 

Protected by your smile and an immense 

Security and simple confidence.. 

Hearing the talkers talk, I thought of you. . . 

And it was like a great wind blowing 

Over confused and poisonous places. 

It was like sterile spaces 

Crowded with birds and grasses, soaked clear 

through 
With sunlight, quiet and vast and clean. 



The Wave 41 

And it was forests growing, 
And it was black things turning green. 
And it was laughter on a thousand faces. . . 
It was, like victory rising from defeat, 
The world made well again, and strong — and 
sweet. 



COMRADES 

I stopped; the beckoning roads urged on in 
vain. 
A dark, malignant power seemed to smite 
The world with fearful silence, like a blight; 
And earth became one dead and haunted plain. 
The huddled woods, the crouching hills 
breathed pain. 
Only the fireflies moved, their timid light 
Seemed like down-hearted stars, lost in the 
night; 
Struggling for skies they never could attain. 

And then the genial moon sprang through a 
cloud, 
As ruddy as a fat-cheeked country boy, 
Spilling his mellow and impartial mirth. 
I faced the Silence — and it laughed out loud 
And spurred me forward, swinging hands 
with Joy; 
Bold with the gay companionship of 
Earth. 

42 



WIND AND FLAME 

Press with rude joy upon the world, 
Persistent Flow, resistless Spark; 

Scatter your blows and torches, hurled 
With bright creation through the dark. 

Leap, Wind — with such a rapture come, 
With such a clean and rushing breath, 

That cries will burst from lips long dumb. 
Rousing the stagnant hosts from death. 

Laugh, Flame, gay offspring of the sun, 
Whose heat is at the roots of birth; 

Burn, till the dry and dead things run 
And blaze upon the blossoming earth. 

Mingle your quickening powers ; contend, 
Ye two great Lovers, in your love; 

Struggling to give all in the end, 
And giving all — yet not enough. . . 

43 



44 Wind and Flame 

Till, springing from that passionate strife, 
Men are reborn through ecstasy — 

The flame that burns the world to life; 
The wind that leaps to set it free ! 



LOVERS 

I. 

What had destroyed their edifice of love? 

Nothing but love. 

They thought they would live in it forever ; 

Forever secure. 

They entrenched themselves behind it 

As though it were a fort; 

Prepared to withstand the sieges of the world. 

And one day they saw there were great gaps 
in the walls, the roof was caving in, even 
the foundations sagged; 

And they saw that the whole house was crum- 
bling and rotting before their eyes. 

For they had built only with love — 

And love is not enough. 

2. 

When the fever abated, when the first rapture 

sagged ; 
When the hot years cooled, and passion became 

a habit, 

45 



46 Lovers 

And the fierce need for each other had passed, 
Then came the fiercer call of the world, the 

grappling encounter with it; 
Came children and larger experiments. 
And the man threw his pent-up energies into 

the fight, 
And went forth and came back, weary and 

untiring. . . 
And the wife threw herself into his arms 

saying '" This is my world ! '* 

And the woman said, seeing the man lie down 
beside her, and kiss her wearily and turn 
away — and sleep, 

" Surely he has grown sick of me; he desires 
me no longer. 

He has time for other things, but none for me. 

He was so different. Where is his love ? " 



And the man said, 

** She thinks only of herself, who was once 

so spendthrift of her interests; 
Like a great stone she hangs herself upon me. 



The Wave 47 

In the morning I am burdened with her small 
concerns, and at night her heavy kisses 
weigh me down — 

She was so different. Where is her love ? " 



So the years passed. 

And they who had only love between them, 

And nothing else but love, 

Lost ^ven that. 



3- 
" Keep us together," they pleaded, " together, 

O Love. 
" Our hands are waiting, eager to be tied. 
And we would have your golden chains about 

us forever. 
Keep us together, O Love." 

They wore their chains like a decoration ; 
They held them up boastfully for all men to 

see; 
They patted and jingled them like bracelets. 



48 Lovers 

And one day, years afterward, when they were 

bruised and beaten, 
They saw, as though for the first time, the 

deep grooves in their flesh; 
And how they, that were once tied gladly and 

with ornaments, 
Were now bound with malignant fetters. 

They did not gasp or cry out. 

They had been far too well schooled; 

Fed on stale forms and trained to soft accept- 
ance. 

They did not protest. But, with an infinite 
amount of tact, 

They smiled; 

Boasting the chains that they could never break. 

Their love was once a fire. 

A blaze that lit the world and leaped laugh- 
ing to the sky. 

A flame that split the heavens, threatening the 
stars ; 



The Wave 49 

That caught up Time like a dry twig, and even 

laid hold of Eternity, 
Bringing it to earth. . . 
Caught in the bright and quivering flood, 
They were lifted and scorched, snatched up 

and cleansed ; 
The slag of manners and breeding was burned 

away from them. 

Poor, fond, proper, ignorant children — 

What availed them their blaze. 

"It is a holy fire," they said, " and who are 

we to touch it; 
To feed it or do aught but be warmed by its 

glamour — even when it dies down. 
A passion sent from heaven and it should burn 

forever. 
How dare we heap fuel on it, 
As though it were stuff to cook with. . ." 

Their love was once a fire; 

And, like a fire, it burnt itself out. . . 

And often these two sit beside the gray ashes. 

And wonder 



50 Lovers 

Why fire cannot feed upon itself — 
Nor love on love. 

5. 
In the beginning was the Word 
" Love, — Love," — it ran through the skies. 
It fired Creation to declare itself 
And brought the seed out of sterility. 
It sprang from nothingness and out of noth- 
ingness it called: 

*' Love — love. ... 

/ am come to scatter life. 

I shall Hood the void with lavish strength; 

I shall impregnate the skies. 

"Love — love. . . . 

/ shall sow the suns like seeds — 

God shall he made from the need of me, 

And Time shall reach out from my loins.** 

And, as the echoes of that confident singing 

stirred and ceased — 
Time arose, groping, and stumbled into the 

light. 



The Wave 51 

Dawn stretched its limbs and grew musical 

with its own beauty. 
The moon rose with a divine hesitation, and 

timidly the first stars came out. 
And God began creating with blundering 

fingers. . . 
Poor clumsy things He made ; eager, pathetic 

experiments — 
Flinging His failures away like a petulant 

child; 
Amused when they turned into comets. 
Then one day He made the earth — ^and God 

saw it was good. 
And with a loving, careful turn of the hand, 
He set the first man in a garden, and fashioned 

his mate. 
***** 
Adam looked up at Eve; she was stretching 

and yawning. 
" Come," said he, " we might as well sleep. 
We sit here, day after day, looking at each 

other; like the animals, saying never a 

word." 
And Eve said, ''What else is there to do? 



52 Lovers 

The place seems duller every hour — 

The same birds, the same hills, the never- 
changing vistas, the unvarying thoughts; 

The tiresome greeting of the staring sun, the 
endless repetition of the night. . . 

Everything in the world grows stale; 

Except," she added hastily, " our love." 

And Adam yawned assent. 

One day, as God, with anxious, knitted brows. 
Was staring past the skies, an angel plucked 

his sleeve. 
He was a thin, important-looking seraph. 
With a sharp nose and foxy eyes. 
*' Look, God," said he, " just look at your two 

people — 
Isn't it terrible, the way they are behaving." 
" I was afraid of this," said God, 
" And yet, now it has come, I am afraid no 

longer." 
** But look, God," almost shrieked the aroused 

one, his wings quivering with excitement, 
" Look, she has taken the fruit — 
And now she is offering it to him. 



The Wave 53 

God," he cried, with meddlesome eagerness, 
'* Let me go down and stop them before it is 

too late ! " 
" No," said God with a great, compassionate 

sweetness, 
" It is better so. 
Let them have wisdom 
For they have only love. 
And Love is not enough." 



THE ROAD 

Down the long road we went, 

Friends and lovers, we two. 

Incredibly content. 

Tingling somehow with the commonplace 

view ; 
Amazed at the heaven's most casual blue. 
Sniffing the air with astonishment. 
As though for the first time we knew 
The sharp smell of the pine-woods blent 
With the vague wild rose's scent. 

Each roadside flower that ran along with us 
Suddenly seemed a thing miraculous; 
Translating all its magic into song. 
Even their names were music; faint and 

strong 
They flashed godspeed and called from where 

they grew : — 
The feathery clusters of the Meadow-Rue; 

54 



The Wave 55 

Wood Lilies dancing by on feathery feet ; 
The swaying spires of the Meadow-Sweet. 
Even the shy Sheep-Laurel looked around 
To stare with deep pink eyes; while, from the 

ground, 
Soft as the thing from which it took its name, 
The Infantas Breath with double sweetness 

came. 
And over all the mingled richness lay 
The hot, sweet fragrance of the drying 

hay. . . 

The city slipped away; 

Its harshness melted as the twilight grew; 

Its power was spent. 

Something was walking with us, something 

new; 
It sang the world into our hearts and sent 
Our spirits dancing to where beauty lay 
Over the heavens like a testament. 
There was one star — and a great wash of 

blue. . . 

Down the long road we went, 
Friends and lovers, we two. 



AN OLD MAID 

Day after day she knits and sews, 
Waiting for nothing — yet she waits; 

Hemmed in by silence, pansy-rows, 
A set of Lytton, five old plates. 

There is a bird that seldom sings; 
Four " classic " prints are on the wall — 

Day after day she sees these things, 
And that is all. 

Great joys or sorrows never came 

To set her placid soul astir; 
Youth's leaping torch, Love's sudden flame 

Were never even lit for her. 
The harsh years merely made her wear 

Misfortune like a frail perfume; 
It hung behind her on the stair 

And filled the room. 
56 



The Wave 57 

Tending her lilac grief with tears 
Her soul grew prim and destitute; 

An empty guest-room, locked for years, 
Musty with dreams and orris-root. . . 

The strengthening cares, the kindling strife 
Of living never swept her high; 

For even in the midst of life, 

Life passed her by. 



ROMANCE 

Romance with firm and eager tread 

Walked at his shoulder; 
He never turned his rapt, poetic head 

Once to behold her. 

He sought her in the skies, in dreams, 

In mystic meadows; 
He plunged through myths and lost her face 
in gleams, 

Clasping her shadows. 

" It is this age," he cried, " these things 

Blind and bewilder! 
Weep for Romance, with frail and trembling 
wings ; 
This world has killed her." 
58 



The Wave 59 

And still he seeks her, warm or dead — 

The quest enthralling! 
And still Romance, with strong and tireless 
tread, 
Follows him, calling. . . 

Calling. . . 



THE WAVE 

There was the sea again ! The laughing sea, 
Breathing its fresh and salty invitation ; 
Clapping its great, green hands and calling me 
To pit my strength against its energy 
And match its vigor with my own elation. 
Impatiently it drummed upon the shore 
And, having yearned for it a year or more, 
I whipped the clothing from my eager body ; 
Flinging aside my threadbare thoughts, the 

shoddy 
Fears and lethargic fancies of a day 
Heavy with subterfuge and the decay 
Of sophistries that only cheat themselves. 
I heard the tide come racing down the sands. 
Pounding a summons on the rocky shelves ; 
A savage welcome in its vehement roar. 
I sprang out on the beach and slammed the 

door 

As though to keep the humid world shut in. 
60 



The Wave 6 1 

I felt the salt winds sniffing at my skin, 
The white-caps urging me with gay commands ; 
And, pulled along by unseen, rescuing hands, 
I sprang into the water, once more free. . . . 
Something had snapped the harsh, invisible 

bands — 
It was the sea again, the laughing sea! 

Out past the life-lines where the sea grew 
calm 
I floated, dreaming, on a watery breast, 
Of wonder with its secret unexpressed, 
And beauty, singing its unwritten psalm. . . 
Its healing bathed me with the balm 
Of rest. 

I dreamed — and then, shocked from my lan- 
guid mood, 
I heard new rumblings threaten and increase. 
This deadening quiet was a false release ; 
The clouds became an evil, black-winged 
brood. . . 
I must escape this torpitude 
Of peace. 



62 The U^ave 

I struck out swiftly toward the land, 

Hand over hand; 
Scooping at wastes of sea that flowed 

Out of my reach, 
Missing the silver line that showed 

The beach. 
I turned face downward as I tried 

A shorter stroke; 
The breakers flung me on my side 

And broke 
Over me while the spume was churned. . . 

The tide had turned! 

Desperate now, I threshed my arms about 
In a sharp trudgeon till a burning pain 
Ran through my ankles that kept plunging out. 
Harder I kicked, and slower; but in vain — 
The tide kept pulling, and I made no gain. 
The beach w^as empty and my smothered shout 
Fell on the thunders with no greater stir 
Than leaves on warring waters. And the rain 
Came with a mocking gentleness, a purr 
Of protest at my struggles. Doubly dear 
Though life was then, the fervor of it passed; 



The Wave d^. 

The leaping radiance ebbed, and even fear 
No longer struck with its insistent spur. 
This frantic burst of power could not last. 
I felt my body slipping — slipping — and 
A giant roller started toward the land, 
Sweeping the ocean with it as it came 
And seized me with a swift and iron hand. 
I floundered in a world of cold, green flame 
And drank its icy hatred ; heard my name 
Under the thunder. I was ground and tossed 
In some malignant mill-race; light was lost — 
All I could see were hands, dark hands; a 

score 
Of whirling tentacles that lifted, tore 
And pulled me down again . . . and down 

. . . and down. . . 
I thought, is this the way that swimmers 

drown ? . . . 

Some one was lifting me ; some others bore 
My limping body up the reeling shore 
And voices coming out of nowhere cried 
^'That's what a fellow gets for being 
brave. . ." 



64 The Wave 

"The trouble is, that there's a tricky tide. . . " 
" Old man, you had a pretty durn close 
shave. . ." 

And how it happened I can never see. 

All I remember is a thundering wave 

That came and caught me in security 

And, in a breath, 

Despairing of a softer remedy, 

Forced me through war and death 

To rescue me. 

Stinging my soft complacence into strife; 

Sweeping me out of languor back to life. 



THIRTEEN PORTRAITS 



(For Dudley F. Sicker) 



THE DEAD HORSE 

Rotting it lay beneath the affable skies ; 

A fecund carrion thrusting to the air 

Its powerful benediction. Everywhere 
About it sang a cloud of bright, green flies. 
Joyfully strengthened birds began to rise ; 

Great, shining beetles ran, refreshed and 
fair, 

And countless crawling things swarmed 
gladly there; 
Called by a death that feeds and fortifies. 

So, laughing, to that lively world he came : 
Death, like a lover at some glorious task. 
Transformed and shining through this 
quickening strife. 
His dark disguise could not conceal the flame ; 
For there, behind his ineffectual mask, 
Sparkled the fresh and conquering eyes of 
Life. 



67 



PORTRAIT OF AN AMERICAN 

He slobbers over sentimental plays 

And sniffles over sentimental songs. 

He tells you often how he sadly longs 
For the ideals of the dear, old days. 
In gatherings he is the first to raise 

His voice against ' our country's shameful 
wrongs.* 

He storms at greed. His hard, flat tone pro- 
longs 
The hymns and mumbled platitudes of praise. 

I heard him at his office Friday past : 

" Look here,'* he said, " their talk is all a 
bluff; 
You mark my words, this thing will never last. 
Let them walk out — they'll come back soon 
enough. . . 
We'll have all hands at work, and working 
fast! 
How do they think we're running this — for 
lovef '' 

68 



PORTRAIT OF A POET 

Fire he sings of — fierce and poignant flame; 

Passion that bids a timid world be bold, 

And Love that rides the tempest uncontrolled, 
Scorning all customs with a greater claim. 
Yet, underneath the ink, his soul is staid; 

Calm, even calculating, shrewd and cold. 

His pain lives but in print; his tears are 
rolled 
And packed in small, neat lyrics for the trade. 

He hawks his passions of assorted brands; 

Romantic toys and tinsels of desire; 
Marionettes that plead as he commands ; 

Rockets that sputter feebly, and expire. . . 
And he is pleased and proud, and warms his 
hands 

At the pale fireworks he takes for fire. 



69 



PORTRAIT OF A CHILD 

Unconscious of amused and tolerant eyes, 
He sits among his scattered dreams, and 

plays. 
True to no one thing long; running for 
praise 
With something less than half begun. He tries 
To build his blocks against the furthest skies. 
They fall; his soldiers tumble; but he stays 
And plans and struts and laughs at fresh 
dismays — 
Too confident and busy to be wise. 

His toys are towns and temples ; his commands 
Bring forth vast armies trembling at his nod. 

He shapes and shatters with impartial 
hands. . . 

And, in his crude and tireless play, I see 
The savage, the creator, and the god: 

All that man was and all he hopes to be. 

70 



PORTRAIT OF A DILETTANTE 

Bright-eyed and chirping like a curious bird 

From twig to twig, from thought to thought, 
he hops. 

Music, the stage, the arts — he never stops 
But off he flits, hunting the precious word. 
All he has read, all he has ever heard 

Is but a cue for agile epigrams ; 

A sipper and a connoisseur of shams 
He echoes echoes, garrulous and unstirred. 

His nonchalance is proof against all hurt; 
Under this shield his dapper soul is free 
Of passion's terrible and sudden spears. 
The world may howl ; important and alert 
He goes through life as through a library, 
Looking for first editions of the years. 



71 



PORTRAIT OF A PATRIOT 

" I DO not want to speak of it," he said, 
And told me that the war was a disgrace, 
A blot, I think he said, upon the face 

Of Progress. Man must hang his head 

Each morning when he reads of men left dead 
Upon the blood-soaked fields. Only one place 
Preserves the high ideals of the race — 

America, where bullets turn to bread. 

" Why, look," he warmed up to his noble text, 
" Look at this country's great neutrality ; 
And how weVe prospered in it. If that 
strife 
Continues through this summer and the next. 
No one can tell how prosperous we'll be. . . 
Just one more year — and we'll be made 
for life!" 



72 



PORTRAIT OF A WOMAN 

Her husband feels her as a soothing spur, 

A golden summons to a joyful strife. 

Some few observe her as the careful wife 
Laying two lives away in lavender. 
A poet knows her as a breath of myrrh; 

A tradesman as an ever-sharpened knife; 

Some see the artist bargaining with life. . . 
And these are but the lightest hints of her. 

For she is Girl and Priestess — and her hands, 
Reckless and wise, snatch at the quickening 
brands 
And bear them like rejoicing flags unfurled. 
Laughing, she scatters life ; she feeds the flames 
That leap through casual thoughts and tawdry 
aims. 
And burns the slag dean from the rusting 
world. 



73 



PORTRAIT 

OF A CHOPIN-PLAYER AND 

HIS AUDIENCE 

His fingers press upon the keys as though 
His hands were dripping thick and heavy 

sirup. 
The sweetness does not cloy; it seems to 
. stir up 
All sorts of greasy sentiments that grow 
Maudlin and morbid. Tears begin to flow ; 
Young girls breathe heavily or sob unchid- 

den; 
Matrons and spinsters dream of things for- 
bidden. . . 
He piles the pathos on — adagio. 

The concert ends. The powder-puffs come out. 
A dying buzz — and people go about 

Their idleness or drudgery as before. . . 
And in his taxi no one hears him say, 
" I'll have to dye my hair ; it's almost gray. 

There was a time they used to weep much 
more." 

74 



PORTRAIT OF A JEWELRY 
DRUMMER 

Adventure hangs about him, like a friend ; 

Romance he buys and sells on six months' 
time. 

In his small wallet lust and heedless crime 
Come to a safe and profitable end. 
Rubies, torn from the eyes of idols, blend 

With virgin pearls, fresh from the ageless 
slime. 

And lives and hazards, perilous and sublime. 
Are this man's power — and his dividend. 

The diver's death becomes his daily bread ; 
The smallest of his opals burn and glow 
With all the stubborn agonies of 
strife. . . 
We spoke of men and hardships. '* Well," he 
said, 
" This traveling is the meanest work I know. 
Small towns and sleepers ; it's a dog's own 
life!" 

75 



PORTRAIT OF THREE PEOPLE 

Monstrous, misshapen, huge and unconcerned 
She sways and bulges through the oily 

crowd. 
Her heavy patience, touched with something 
proud, 
Gives her a dignity she never learned. 
Her path is strewn with rags and overturned 
Ruins of garbage. Dumb but never cowed 
She bears her throbbing weight, as though 
endowed 
With the same fires with which the Virgin 
burned. 

Near her a soldier saunters at his ease, 

Smelling of swift destruction, foul with 
strife. 
Yet he is clear-eyed, likes a bit of chaff; 
There's humor in him too. So when he sees 
This mountain slowly laboring toward life, 
He nudges his companion, and they laugh. 
76 



PORTRAIT 
OF A SUPREME COURT JUDGE 

How well this figure represents the Law — 
This pose of neuter justice, sterile cant; 

This Roman Emperor with the iron jaw, 
Wrapped in the black silk of a maiden-aunt. 



11 



TO A SELF-CONFESSED 
PHILOSOPHER 

Is it your pride sustains you most 

When other men's conceit sounds hol- 
low. . . 
*' My school's the world ! " you often boast 

And wait for the applause to follow. 

With any casual phrase, you love 

To strike a noble attitude ; 
And with what eloquence you prove 

Some stale and standard platitude! 

Is there no cure for this offense 

That human flesh, it seems, is heir to; 

This philosophic flatulence 
That all your underlings must swear to! 

Is there no end to your superb 
Power of rhetoric and inaction? 

Can nothing shatter, nothing curb 
Your sleek and smiling satisfaction? 
78 



Thirteen Portraits 79 

In soft emotions you lie curled 

With all your placid creeds beside you; 

And blink approval on a world 

You like to think has taught and tried you. 

The world, you say, has been your school — 
But have you never contemplated. 

Oh, positive and pompous fool, 
How badly you've been educated 1 



/ 



TO A GENTLEMAN-REFORMER 

Keep it — your torn and rotting decency, 
Your antique toga with its quaint misfit. 
Keep it; the world has Httle use for it, 

Or swaddled truths too frightened to be free. 

This is no age for sick humility, 

Or queasy goodness without strength enough 
To dare the keen and hungry edge of love. 

Or fear that wraps itself in chastity. 

Hide in its crumbling folds. How should you 

know 
That virtue may be dirty and can grow 

Furtive and festering in a mind obscene. 
How should you know the world's glad, vulgar 

heart ; 
The sensual health that is the richest part 
Of life; so frankly carnal — and so clean. 



80 



HAVENS 



(For Jean) 



HAVENS 

Beloved, let me grope and lie 

In the triumphant reaches of your 
soul; 

That singing and barbaric sky 
Which is my goal. 

Age cannot make the way less fresh; 

And bar me if I ever dare despise 
The close and friendly house of flesh 

Through which it lies. 

But ever slowly let me move 

Through twisting roads of passion, 
gates of care; 

And the dark labyrinth of love 
That leads me there. 



DRIVEN 

What swords have clashed between us; yes, 
What blows, forgotten and forgiven. 

With what a storm of stubbornness 

We thought we drove — when we were 
driven. 

Down to what wars we two have gone 

Toward peace, that cool and quiet splendor. 

And must we still go fighting on 
After the ultimate surrender ? 

Well, let it whirl about our lives 

Through breathless days and thundering 
weather — 
I do not fear whatever drives 

As long as we are driven together. 



84 



THE SLEEPERS 

Moonlight and music and the sound of waves 

Reached out and held us there ; 

Each close to each, 

Upon the night-blurred and deserted beach. 

She sang an old, imperishable air 

Softly . . . and from forgotten graves 

A mist of memories arose 

As if in answer to an unspoken call. 

A soft and intimate breeze 

Crooned over us and over all 

The blue and faintly-singing spaces; 

Over the quiet and the salty balm, 

Over the velvet skies and seas, 

Over our half -concealed and cloudy faces. 

That strange and rosy wind 

Mellowed the distance; smoothing down the 

thinned. 
Sharp edges of the sickle-moon; 
Bringing the night so close 
85 



86 The Sleepers 

That when our fingers clasped 

We grasped and held its greatness and calm 

Warmly within each palm. 

And, as her head drooped back, 
And the breath of the world came slower, 
A drowsy voice grew out of the black 
Night as her voice sank lower. 
Something caught her unspoken word, 
It answered and mingled with her; 
Their breathing blended and I heard 
The voice of Sleep and her sleepy voice 
Singing together. . . 

The wind crept up on the sands and stopped; 
The voices dropped. 

Our fingers loosened; the night imposed 
The weight of all sleepers upon us and closed 
Our heavy eyes. 

Then, as we lay, 

I stretched my arm into the skies 

And plunged it through that shining spray, 

Pushing my shoulders through the cloudy bars, 

And grasped the moon like a scythe. 



Havens 87 

I flung my swaying body in a lithe 

And rhythmic play, 

Cutting down great, wide swathes of stars; 

Reaping the heavens with a blithe 

Song till the blue fields were bare. 

Then, when the last gold bud was shaken free 

And all the silver flowers of the night 

Had rained and heaped about her there, 

I threw the bright blade into the sea. . . 

There was a hissing and an end of light. 
And we slept — dreamlessly. 



HOME 

Is it a tribute or betrayal when 

Turning from all the sweet, accustomed 
ways, 
I leave your lips and eyes to seek you in 
Some other face. 

Why am I searching after what I have? 

And going far to find the near at hand? 
I do not know. I only know I crave 
To find you at the end. 

I only know that love has many a hearth, 

That hunger has an endless path to roam, 
And beauty is the dream that drives the earth 
And leads me home. 



88 



VICTORIES 

I. 
Blow trumpets ; roll drums — 
The straining banners snap and tug at their 

ropes ; 
Now the flags of my spirit leap, 
And my heart is a town full of cheering. 
Sing boldly, oh my soul ; 

Sing battle-hymns, now that the battle is over, 
Sing praises and bravuras. 

Long have I waited for this day. . . 
Often have I said " It will come to-morrow ; 
And failing then, surely the morning after.'* 
Often I thought I saw it in her looks, and 

then I said " At last— it is to-day ! " 
Often it seemed I read the miraculous news — 
Her face, her talk was full of hints of it. 
But they were only hints and lights and 

promises ; 

89 



90 Victories 

Signals that flashed through the long and 

ghostly struggle 
Where she was fighting grimly — and alone. 

But now the clouds are rolled back ; 

And out of a morbid darkness, 

See, she emerges. 

Brightly she comes 

With cleared eyes and a laughing mouth. 

And hands that carry love as a child bears 

flowers. 
Let my songs run before me to greet her. 
Sing praises, oh my soul; 
Sing, as she stands there, flushed and confident. 
Watching, over her shoulder, the rout of her 

confused and retreating fears. 
Sing — she is victorious and transfigured; 
Sing — she has conquered herself! 

2. 

Listen, my love and my victorious companion. 

Let me confess 

When you came out of the struggle without a 

scar, 
I was ashamed. 



Havens 9 1 

Your rallying strength, your unsuspected cour- 
age 

Were a reproach to me. 

When you passed, with your hair flying like 
happy pennants in the wind. 

Your shining spirits seemed to cry out : 

" See, we have triumphed without you ! " 

Yet I was glad — 

Glad that I had not made the fight less hard ; 

Glad that the old, hereditary ghosts, 

By your strong stubbornness and stronger faith 

Had been dispelled forever. . . 

Watching you tear veil after veil and scatter 

them light-heartedly; 
Seeing you look at last on things, not shadows 

and distortions; 
Hearing you laugh out loud, 
I knew, victorious companion, 
None but ourselves can fight the battles of our 

selves ; 
And I was glad, 
Knowing your victory was real — because it was 

your own. 



92 Victories 

3- 
May — and the rush of love 

Over an eager world. 
The earth, like a young bride, trembling 

Under the hot hands of Spring. 

May — and the push of winds 

Tender, resistless and wild. 
And Spring pressing close, like a lover 

With gentle and conquering strength. 

May — and the quivering night 
Beating upon us and through us. 

Hold back no longer ... no longer. . . 
Come . . . with the rush of love. . . 

4. 

You remember that night after they had all 
gone. 

We went down the twisting pine-road and sat 
by the shore. 

The beach was deserted, 

The bathing-houses seemed like a row of gro- 
tesquely marching tombstones; 



Havens 93 

The sea was tumbled grass in an old grave- 
yard, 

And even the stars seemed strangely lifeless 
and remote. 

Nothing of life was around us; 

Only a weary night-bird circling disconsolate. 

We seemed to be planted in sterile space, 
Far off and forgotten. 
Then the moon rose over the smooth sea, 
Making a path on those blue-marbled waters 
So straight, so substantial, it seemed we could 

walk on it; 
And walking thus, walk out beyond the world. 
Pillowed upon your soothing breasts 
Hay, 
Half hoping for such a calm and mystical 

escape. . . 

How long ago it seems. 

Two years — two million years from our desire. 
There is no end for us now, but radiant and 
fresh beginnings. 



94 Victories 

We have achieved a firmer peace than death's ; 

Not an escape from life, 

But daily, for the long and spirited encounter. 

The peace that spurs, that strengthens and 

fights on! 

5. 
Blow trumpets; roll drums — 

Give her to me, oh May, triumphant and trans- 
figured. 

Earth, like a soft-cheeked mother, shall em- 
brace us, 

And there shall be new bride-songs and holier 
bridals. 

My arms shall be strong with rejoicings. 

My love shall cry hosannas ! 

And heaven shall be made roomier for our 
nuptials. . . 

Withhold no longer; no longer. 

Give her to me, oh May, as though for the 
first time — 

Mine more than ever ! 



JONQUILS 

A HANDFUL of slcndcr jonquils 

With candid and innocent eyes — 
And then, from the mists of my boyhood, 
I feel it arise. . . 

An evening of words and evasions, 
And fingers that grope to explain ; 
Long looks and a longer silence, 

And the hush of the rain. 

Too holy for tears or for laughter, 

Till — staring at us with surprise — 
The wide-mouthed, incredulous jonquils, 
With innocent eyes. 



95 



BACCHANAL 

Take a sip of April, 

Quaff the fiery Spring, 
Till you thrill with joyous envy 

Many a buried king. 
Death's a giddy precipice; 

Dance upon its brink — 
Here is Life, a brimming goblet; 

Drink! 

Toss off winds and laughter, 

Music and delight. 
While the moon's a great pearl melting 

In the cup of night. 
Pour the wild libation 

Gaily ere you sink; 
Here's the world's immortal madness — 

Drink! 



96 



JOE-PYEWEED 

And the name brings back those kindly hills 
And the drowsing life so new to me; 

And the welcome that those purple blossoms 
With their tiny trumpets blew to me. 

Stout and tall, they raised their clustered 
heads, 
Leaping, as a lusty fellow would, 
Through the lowlands, down the twisting cow- 
paths ; 
Running past the green and yellow wood. 

How they come again — those rambling roads; 

And the weeds' wild jewels glowing there. 
Richer than a Paradise of flowers 

Was that bit of pasture growing there. 

Weeds — the very names call up those faint 
Half -forgotten smells and cries again. . . 

Weeds — like some old charm, I say them over, 
And the rolling Berkshires rise again : 

97 



98 Joe-Pyeweed 

Basil, Bonesef, ToadHax, Tansy, 
Weeds of every form and fancy; 
Milk-weed, Mullein, Loose-strife, Jewel-weed, 
Mustard, Thimble-weed, Tear-thumb (a cruel 

weed). 
Clovers in all sorts — Nonesuch, Melilot; 
Staring Buttercups, a bold and yellow lot. 
Daisies rioting about the place 
With black-eyed Susan and Queen Anne's 

Lace. . . 

Names — they blossom into colored hills ; 

Hills whose rousing beauty flows to me. . . 
And with all its soundless, purple trumpets, 

Lo, the Joe-Pyeweed still blows to me ! 



A WINTER LYRIC 

The winter winds were swift and stinging, 
The day was growing old and dark ; 
And yet within the icy park 

Birds in the leafless trees were singing. 

Somehow the cold was not so clinging, 
And homing people stopped to stare 
At all the brave hearts clustered there — 

Birds in the leafless trees ! And singing ! 

Yes, Spring is sweet with new songs ringing, 
And Summer's pageant moves all men ; 
But my heart leaps to Winter when 

Birds in the leafless trees are singing. 



99 



SPRING 
(A Color Print by Hiroshige) 

A YELLOW raft sails up the bluest stream 
And cherry-blossoms cloud the shore with 
pink ; 

The sky grows clearer with a curious gleam 
And boys come playing to the river brink. 

A grayish gull descends to preen and prink. 
Far off, a singing plowman drives his team — 
A yellow raft sails up the bluest stream 

And cherry-blossoms cloud the shore with 
pink. . . 

Oh, to be there; far from this tangled scheme 
Of strident days and nights that flare and 
sink. 

xoo 



Havens loi 

Beauty shall lift us with a colored dream; 

And, as we muse, too rapt and wise to think, 
A yellow raft sails up the bluest stream 

And cherry-blossoms cloud the shore with 
pink. 



THE ROBBER 

I FEAR the night, the ruthless night — 
It reaches down its great, dark hands 
And takes the color from the day, 
A world of children from their play, 
And laughter from all lands. 

I fear the night, the stealthy night — 
It creeps up noiselessly, and soon 

It robs the housetops of their gold ; 

It grasps the sun and leaves — behold ! 
That dull and leaden moon. . . 

I fear the night, the envious night — 

Its jealous stars; its sharp-eyed crew. . ,^ 
Oh, hide your head upon my breast; 
Or Night, that steals the whole world's 
best, 
May see and covet you ! 



102 



THE VICTOR 

Bruised in the grapple with trade, 
Scourged with its merciless whips, 

Love, I shall combat its strength unafraid, 
Knowing I still have your lips. 

Bound to the torturing wheel. 

Sold, like a slave, in the mart, 
Nothing can break me, oh love, while I feel 

Your cool hands and fiery heart. 

Cries and contemptuous pain — 
War in a world of unrest. . . 

Give me the battle again and again 

With the conquering hope of your breast ! 



103 



TRUCE 

We lay on the couch by the window, almost 

asleep ; 
Watching the snow. 

She on my breast, a lovely and luminous heap, 
With her head drooping low. 
Except for one singing candle's flame. 
And our drowsy whispers, there was no stir in 

the air. 
And, as she smiled and snuggled closer there. 
The Dusk crept up and flowed into the room. 
Softly, with reverent hand, it touched her hair 
That, like a soft brown flower, seemed to bloom 
In the deep-lilac gloom. 
Kindly it came 
And laid its blurring fingers on the sharp edges 

of things ; 
On books and chairs and figured coverings. 
And all once clear and delicately wrought. 
104 



Havens 105 

Then, almost hastily, 

As though with a last, merciful thought, 

It covered, with its hand, the sharp, white 

square 
That stood out in the corner where 
The evening paper had been flung — 
Blotting the screaming type that leaped and 

sung; 
Hushed by no horror or shame. . . 
The brutal head-lines faded ; and the room 
Grew softer in the gloom. 

She and I on the couch by the window, watch- 
ing the snow; 
She half -asleep on my breast, and her fingers 

tangled in mine. 
And still in the room, the uncertain and slow 
Twilight paused with its purple half -shadows, 

half -shine. 
Then stopped — as if seeing her it could go 
No further, but stood in a trembling glow. 
Like a pilgrim stumbling upon a shrine. . . 

Quiet — a reverent and unspoken psalm. 
Quiet — as deep-toned as a distant temple-bell 



io6 Truce 

Spreading its measured calm. 

Even the streets felt the beneficent balm — 

The shops were golden niches, bright 

With squares of cheerful light. 

The people passed, wrapped in a genial spell ; 

Transfigured by the screening snow that fell, 

Fluttering its white 

And great compassionate wings, 

Hiding the black world and all sharp-edged 

things. 
Quiet — ineffable and complete. . . 
Except, far down the street, 
A murmur jarring through the hush, and then 
A newsboy's treble, thin and dying out : 
'' Extra — War News Extra . . . All about — '* 
And silence once again. 

Closer the skies were drawn, closer the street; 
And stars began to breathe again and men 

rejoice. 
While Beauty rose up to defeat 
That boy's high voice. 
With its echo and threat of a world unreal; 
Too terrible to reveal. . . 



Havens 107 

And her fingers tightened in mine; slowly she 

opened her eyes ; 
And the laugh of our child rang out, and a blue 

rift broke in the skies. 
And the clouds, like white banners of truce, 

hung gently above, 
With a promise of rest and release. . . 
And the world, like a soft-breasted mother, 

was an intimate heaven of love, 
And a pillow of peace. 



DICK 



(For Richard 
Son and Collaborator) 



CONCERNING HEAVEN 

Well, Heaven's hard to understand — 
But it's a kind of great, big land 

All full of gold and glory; 
With rivers green and pink and red, 
And houses made of gingerbread 

Like in the fairy story. 

The floors they use are made of clouds ; 

And there are crowds and crowds and crowds 

Who sing and dance till seven. 
But then they must keep still because 
God and the Dream-Man and Santa Glaus 

Sleep in the big House of Heaven. 

God, He sleeps on the first two floors; 
And the Dream-Man sleeps above Him and 
snores, 

A tired-out story-teller; 
And Santa Glaus, who hates the noise, 
He sleeps on the roof with all of his toys — 

And the angels live in the cellar. 



112 Concerning Heaven 

Now, the angels never sleep a wink, 
They're much too busy to stop to think 

Or play on harps and guitars. 
They're always cleaning the sun at night. 
And all day long, to keep them bright, 

They polish the moon and the stars. 

They clean the streets and they tidy the rooms, 
And they sweep out Heaven with a million 
brooms, 

And they hurry each other when they nod. 
And they work so fast that they almost fall — 
But God just sits and never works at all; 

And that's because He's God! 



CONCERNING GOD 

Well, God does nothing all day long 

But He sits and sits in His chair; 
His face is as silver and big as the moon, 
And He wears all the stars in His hair. 
He's very large and happy and He's very, very 

old; 
And half His hair is purple and the other half 
is gold. 

He wears no crown but a big, tall hat 

With feathers three miles high; 
And they have a hundred colors that are far 
more bright 
Than all the other colors in the sky. 
And they're tied to His hat with a kind of vel- 
vet rag — 
And right in the middle of them all He wears a 
great, big American flag! 



"3 



CONCERNING TRUTHS 

They always said the moon was far away, 

A hundred miles or more up in the skies. 
They said he never could come down to play. 
They said a lot of things that sounded wise — 

But they were lies. 
So when folks say the moon is dead 
I do not even shake my head ; 
I only laugh because I know 
It isn't so. 

Only the other night 

I watched and saw how light 

He leaped down from the skies. 

And then, with crinkling eyes. 

That seemed to say " I'm coming," 

He danced and started humming 

So gaily and so brightly 

That Wendy, who sleeps lightly, 

(She's our canary) woke 

And scolded when she spoke. 
114 



Dick 115 

But on he came — so near 
That he could almost peer 
Into my room and see 
Wendy, the toys and me. 
Closer he came, until 
His hands were on the sill; 
They stretched and tried to get 
My pail, my soldier set. 
And, as he touched my broom, 
He jumped into the room! 
I knew then right away 
He had come down to play — 
And so without a word, 
(For mother might have heard) 
Making no talk or noise, 
We played with all my toys. 
I never had such fun 
Before with any one. . . 



After a while he had to go— 

I tired him, I'm afraid; 
And then I knew why I liked him so 
When he played. 



Ii6 Concerning Truths 

For his face — as fat as a face could be — 

Was jolly, and powdered white; 
And I knew why the stars must wink when he 
Laughed all night. 

I saw him dancing along a wall, 
And jumping lightly down — 
And I knew he wasn't a moon at all. 
But a Clown! 

So when they tell me corn-starch makes you 
strong, 
A.nd sitting still is good for tired eyes; 
I think that very likely they are wrong ; 
And lots of other things that sound so wise 

Are only lies. 
I think about the way they said 
The moon was far away, and dead ; 
And then I laugh because I know 
What isn't so! 



CONCERNING A STORM 

The other night before the storm, 
I sat and watched the rain-clouds swarm 
Like great, black bees, so angry that 
They buzzed with thunder. Well, I sat 
And saw the wind come racing down, 
Banging the shutters of the. town; 
Kicking the dust up in the road 
And frightening every little toad. 
He broke off branches for a toy. 
Just like a large and wicked boy; 
He threw the papers in the air, 
And laughed as if he didn't care 
What any one might say or do. 
He roared and sang and whistled, too. . 
Well, pretty soon things got so black 
There was no sky except a crack. 
One little streak of funny light. 
" See," father said, " just see how bright 
The heavens shine behind it now — 
And look, it seemed to spread somehow." 
117 



ii8 Concerning a Storm 

But father didn't understand 

That I had seen it — seen God's hand 

When, in a flash, so sharp and sly, 

He tore a hole in that black sky. 

I guess God must have missed my face 

Behind the clouds in that dark place, 

And so He made a hole to see 

Whatever had become of me. 

So when the space grew red and wide 

And full of gold, and father cried, 

" Was ever such a brilliant hue — " 

I only smiled because I knew 

I had been looking in God's eye. , . 

Yet I kept still, till by and by, 

When father cried, " The lightning, see — " 

I had to laugh out loud with glee. 

For it was God that winked at me! 



HE TELLS A STORY 

Once upon a time all the stars in Heaven were 

very good. 
They played nicely with each other all day 

long; 
They were polite to their neighbors; 
And they talked in whispers whenever God was 

working. 
But one day some of them said to the others, 
" We are growing up now ; we are no longer 

children. 
Let us stop being polite and obedient ; 
Let us sing all day and dance all night, and 

kick up our heels in the morning." 
So all the Naughty Stars got together in one 

corner of the heavens. 

And they sang all day and they danced all night 
and they kicked up their heels in the morn- 
ing. 

119 



120 He Tells a Story 

And they made such a terrible noise in the 
heavens that none of the angels could 
sleep. 

And God came to them, and he said, 

" You must be a little more quiet ; 

I am very busy and I don't want to be dis- 
turbed. . . Do you understand?" 

And they all said *' Yes, sir," and kept very 
still. 

But as soon as God's back was turned 

The Naughty Stars started to sing and dance 

and kick up their heels; 
And they made such a noise that every one of 

the angels had headaches. 
And God heard them, although he was far 

away. 
And he came back, very angry, and he said, 
'' Will you be still ! Didn't I tell you I wanted 

more quiet! 
The next time I have to speak to you about it, 

you'll be sorry. 
I'll punish every one of you . , . Do you 

understand ? " 



Dick 121 

And they all said "Yes, sir," and kept very 
still. 

This time they really were still. 

They sat in the corner of the heavens with their 

fingers on their lips for the longest 

time. . . . 
But when they saw that God had gone again, 

the Naughty Stars forgot all about their 

promise. 
And they started to sing and dance and kick up 

their golden heels, 
And make such a noise that the angels ran 

around like mad. 
And suddenly up jumped God right in the mid- 
dle of them ! 
They were so frightened they almost went 

out. . . 
And God began to punish them. 

He said, " Because you wouldn't do as you 

were told. 
And because you didn't appreciate Heaven, 
I am going to send you out of it. 
You will have to live on the earth; 



122 He Tells a Story 

And all year long you'll hide in the grass and 
the bushes 

And be afraid to show yourselves. 

Only in the summer will you shine as you used 
to, 

And then you'll try to fly back into the skies. 

But you'll never get back into Heaven for a mil- 
lion years; 

And you'll never stop trying. . . 

And that's your punishment." 

And that's what happened. ... 

You can see them any evening in summer, try- 
ing to fly back into Heaven. 

But they've forgotten the way they came, 

Or perhaps their wings are broken, or maybe 
none of them are strong enough. . . . 

Some people call them fireflies. 

But you and I, father, know they are the 
Naughty Stars. 



ROCKS AND OCEAN 

I STOOD on the cliffs 

And watched the ocean tumbling in. 

It was high-tide 

And the sea rumbled and roared around the 

rocks. 
And it seemed that the rocks were mothers 
And the sea-weeds were children that clung 

to them. 

The sea leaped higher and higher, 

An army of waves, 

Reaching out long white hands 

To tear the children from the breast of the 

mothers. 
But the weeds clung tighter 
And the rocks stood in the midst of the warring 

waters. 
Silent and strong. 

123 



BATTLE-CRIES 



''WAKE, GOD, AND ARM" 

Wake, God, and arm — this is no time for sleep ; 
Now that red Madness wakes ten million men. 
And Murder laughs and stabs and laughs again, 
And Lust runs rough-shod where it feared to 

creep. 
Brushing Thy hand the great-winged navies 

sweep ; 
Each night sends down a hideous surprise. 
Even the stars drip war . . . and swarms of 

flies 
Blot farms and cities in one festering heap. 

Where art Thou, God, these torn and shatter- 
ing days? 

Where is Thine ancient wrath. Thy militant 
word? . . . 

Still. Thou are still — impotent and absurd — 

A cautious god, feeble with too much praise. 

Thou too, arise and arm! Why shouldst Thou 
be 

Keeping, with Death, this black neutrality. 
127 



THE LAUGHERS 

Spring! 

And her hidden bugles up the street. 

Spring — and the sweet 

Laughter of winds at the crossing; 

Laughter of birds and a fountain tossing 

Its hair in abandoned ecstasies. 

Laughter of trees. 

Laughter of shop-girls that giggle and blush; 

Laugh of the tug-boat's impertinent fife. 

Laughter followed by a trembling hush — 

Laughter of love, scarce whispered aloud. 

Then, stilled by no sacredness or strife, 

Laughter that leaps from the crowd ; 

Seizing the world in a rush. 

Laughter of life. . . 

Earth takes deep breaths like a man who had 

feared he might smother, 
Filling his lungs before bursting into a 

shout. . . 

128 



Battle-Cries 129 

Windows are opened — curtains flying out ; 

Over the wash-lines women call to each other. 

And, under the calling, there surges, too clearly 
to doubt, 

Spring, with the noises 

Of shrill little voices; 

Joining in " Tag " and the furious chase 

Of " I-spy," " Red Rover " and " Prisoner's 
Base'\- 

Of the roller-skates' whir at the sidewalk's 
slope, 

Of boys playing marbles and girls skipping 
rope. 

And there, down the avenue, behold. 

The first true herald of the Spring — 

The hand-organ gasping and wheezily mur- 
muring 

Its tunes ten years old. . . 

And the music, trivial and tawdry, has fresh- 
ness and magical swing. 

And over and under it, 

During and after, 

The laughter 

Of Spring. . . 



130 The Laughers 

And lifted still 

With the common thrill, 

With the throbbing air, the tingling vapor, 

That rose like strong and mingled wines ; 

I turned to my paper, 

And read these lines : 

"Now that the Spring is here, 

The war enters its bloodiest phase, . . 

The men are impatient. . . 

Bad roads, storms and the rigors of the 
winter 

Have held back the contending armies. . . 

But the recruits have arrived. 

And are waiting only the first days of warm 
weather 

There will be terrible fighting along the 
whole line — 

Now that the Spring has come/' 

I put the paper down. . . 

Something struck out the sun — something 

unseen ; 
Something arose like a dark wave to drown 
The golden streets with a sickly green. 



Battle-Cries 131 

Something polluted the blossoming day 

With a touch of decay. 

The music thinned and died ; 

People seemed hollow-eyed. 

Even the faces of children, where gaiety 

lingers, 
Sagged and drooped like banners about to be 

furled — 
And Silence laid its bony fingers 
On the lips of the world. . . 
A grisly quiet with the power to choke; 
A quiet that only one thing broke ; 
One thing alone rose up thereafter. . . 
Laughter ! 

Laughter of streams running red. 
Laughter of evil things in the night; 
Vultures carousing over the dead ; 
Laughter of ghouls. 
Chuckling of idiots, cursed with sight. 
Laughter of dark and horrible pools. 
Scream of the bullets' rattling mirth, 
Sweeping the earth. 
Laugh of the cannon's poisonous breath. . . 



132 the Laughers 

And over the shouts and the wreckage and 

crumbling 
The raucous and rumbling 
Laughter of death. 
Death that arises to sing, — • 
Hailing the Spring ! 



THE VICTORY OF THE BEET- 
FIELDS 

Green miles of leafy peace are spread 

Over these ranks, unseen and serried; 
Screening the trenches with their dead 

And living men already buried. 
The rains beat down, the torrents flow 

Into each cold and huddling cave;- 
And over them the beet-fields grow, 

A fortress gentle as a grave. 

" Morose, impatient, sick at heart, 

With rasping nerves and twitching muscles, 
We cannot even sleep; we start 

With every twig that snaps or rustles. 
Sought always by an unseen foe 

Over our heads the bullets Hy; 
But more than these, we fear the snow, 

The silent shrapnel of the sky. 



133 



134 Victory of the Beet-Fields 

" Yonder our colonel stalks and grieves, 

Meeting the storm with thoughts more 
stormy; 
But we, we sit and watch the leaves 

Fall down, a torn and crumpled army. 
We mourn for every leaf that lies, 

As though it were a comrade slain; 
Each was a shelter from the eyes 

Of every prying aeroplane. . . " 

And in its cloudy uniform, 

Stilling the cannon's earthly thunder, 
The huge artillery of the storm 

Plows through the land and pulls it under. 
The rain beats down, until the slow 

And slipping earth resists no more. . . 
And over them the beets will grow 

Ranker and redder than before. 



TO A WAR POET 

You sang the battle — 

You, in your slippered ease. 

Boldly you called for the muskets to 

rattle 
And bade the bugles lift to the breeze. 
Glory you sang^ — from your couch. 
With the strength of a well-filled pouch 
You uttered your militant prattle ; 
You sang the battle. 

What was your singing for, 

With its twopenny craving for gore. 

And its blatant and shoddy glamour 

False to the core. 

Evil enough is the poisonous clamor — 

'Why should you yammer 

Of war? 

135 



136 To a War Poet 

Safe in your club or your den 

You watch them go past you again ; 

Other than when you first sung them, 

(Thankful that you're not among them) 

Soldiers no longer, but men. 

Men, and young boys, who were hot 

with the breath 
Of your ardor and noisy ferment. 
Look at them now; they are broken 

and spent. . . 
Are you not glad that your doggerel sent 
Hundreds of these to their death! 

Go now — stop clearing your throat ; 
Drop those fat hands that smote 
Your twanging and trumpery lute. 
Go now, and learn from that battered 

recruit 
Of his jubilant sixty days ! 
Of the terror that crowded the dawn ; 
Of a fragrant and peace-breathing lawn 
Turned to a roaring blaze ; - 
Of frantic drums that blustered and beat 
A nightmare retreat; 



Battle-Cries 137 

Of the sickness, the death-dealing 
stenches ; 

The stumbling resistance, the thundering 
flight. 

The desperate wait and the unending 
night 

Waist-deep in the water-filled trenches. 

Of women ravished in a gust 

Of horrible, hasty lust; 

And children conceived with the crip- 
pling weight 

Of frenzied and cancerous hate. . . 

Of dusk settling down like a blight, 

Screening unnamable hordes; 

Searchlights stabbing the night 

With blinding and bodiless swords; 

Of a sudden welter of cries 

And death dropping down from the skies. 

What was your singing for ? 

This music that rose to enamor 

The crowd with a clamor 

It could not ignore. . . 

Go — with your falsetto roar; 



138 To a War Poet 

Go — with your ready-made glamour. 
Why should you stay here to gurgle 

and stammer 
Of war? 



THE OLD DESERTER 

"Forty days . . . forty days . . . forty 

days. , .'' ^ 

It seemed to have been going on forever; 
Not phrases, not even words — only a sound, 
Like a door with rusty hinges swinging in the 

wind. 

Then I noticed him — the remnant of a man. 
Never have I beheld a thing so smashed and 

tattered as that man's face; 
His sixty years or more. 
With all their records, all the hard-learned, 

careful craftiness. 
Were nothing more than years. 
Something had crushed and mangled him into 

a gray pulp. . . 
Could he have stood up straight he would have 

towered above me. 
I had to bend to hear him. 
139 



I40 The Old Deserter 

Hungry he was for talk. 

He tried to hold back and be still ; 

But, like flooding streams breaking a puny dam, 

Out of his mind rushed a mad torrent of 

speech. 
So wild, so muttering fierce it came, 
It was some time before I caught his drift — 
Feeling only, like the tide in a swirling current, 
His pulsing, insistent " Forty days .... forty 

days. . ." 

" Forty days — that's all — just forty days. . . 

I come from Pforzheim — foreman in the shop 
I was, too; 

Head of the tool-room, a fine place, light and 
cool in summer. 

Best machines in the country — I took care of 
them like children. 

(You should see those mills now: — cartridge- 
blanks dropping where we used to press 
up crosses!) 

Forty days . . . only forty days. . . 

Forty days — just like the old times — you can 
read it in the Bible : 



Battle-Cries 141 

* Forty days there were of flood ; forty days of 
fasting ' — heinf 

Yes, forty days of fools running round and 
stabbing other fools; and all of them pray- 
ing to God to help them ; 

And the whole world going to smash. 

I almost went mad myself. 

My son (curse him!) the worst fool of the lot, 
went along with them, 

Singing louder than a drunken man. . . 

We were more like brothers, we two ; we never 
had had a quarrel. 

I could have killed him when he said " Good- 

by." 
And the boys in the street shouted godspeed 
And a couple of women nudged each other and 

looked sneeringly at me. 
Yah — what did I care ! I wanted none of their 

fool's glory. . . 
Then I had to clear out after all. 
They made me go along. — My God, those forty 

days! 
A hundred million acres ruined by the armies, 

the gray vultures! 



142 The Old Deserter 

Cannon in the wheat-fields and orchards rot- 
ting in the poisoned smoke ; 

The tramping, and the iron rain that never 
stopped, and the sickness, and the young 
boys going crazy. . . 



And forty days ago I had been working on a 
draw-plate, 

And the men were standing around me, gossip- 
ing at lunch-time ; 

And Adolph (he was the favorite) was late 
with the beer. 

I remember how we all waited, thirsty and 
joking. 

And Karl, my assistant, said, * Well, I hope he 
don't drink my share. . . . ' 

And then he came in with the news. . . 

Forty days ago . . . only forty days. 

It isn't possible. . ." 

I left him, still mumbling and twisting on his 

cot; 
His filmed eyes did not even follow me. 



CELL-MATES 

Aw, quit yer cryin', kid — I know it's tough, 
But dearie, shush ; nobody's gone to lynch ye ; 

Later ye'U find th' cops are square enough ; 
It's always worse the first time that they 
pinch ye. 

Things ain't so bad. Now there, don't take 
on so — 
The matron won't do nothin' if ye shout, 
dear. 
That's right . . . Now come an' tell me all 
ye know. . . 
Ain't ye got nobody to bail ye out, dear ? 

Well, well — . But that's a shame. A kid so 
cute 
An' young like youse had never ought to 
worry. 
Gee! if they'd doll ye up, ye'd be a beaut — 
Why should ye waste yer life in work an' 
hurry? 

143 



144 Cell- Mates 

Oh, there is lots o' ways it could be did — 
'Course I won't do this much for every- 
body — 

I tell ye what, I'm gone to help ye, kid. 
An' I've got infloonce, if my clo'es is shoddy. 

S'posin' that I could get ye out o' here — 
Now, now; don't take on like a reg'lar 
baby — 
Yer pretty lucky that ye met me, dear. 

What's that? No, not to-night. To-mor- 
row, maybe. 

Well 's I was sayin', when I leave this hole 
I'll get my friend to go to work an' help ye — 

Don't breathe this here to any livin' soul, 
Fer strangers, dear, is jest the ones to scalp 
ye. 

Now, I've the swellest little flat uptown, 
An' jolly — somethin' doin' every minute! 

There's always some live people hangin' roun' ; 
Ye'll never want to leave when once ye're 
in it. 



Battle-Cries 145 

There's lots o' dancin' — jest ye wait an' see 
The nifty rags I'll get to fit ye, dearie. 

Aw, never mind the thanks — wait till you're 
free ; 
This gratitood an' sob stuff makes me weary. 

Don't worry now, an' things '11 be all right ; 

Ye'll only see th' folks with happy faces. 
There'll be no more o' workin' noon an' night, 

An' standin' up all day behind th' laces. 

Here's the address. Now, don't ye lose it, 
dear; 
An' come right up — don't stop to primp or 
tidy. 
Gee! but it's lucky that ye met me here. . . 
Let's go to sleep . . . Good-night ... an' 
see ye Frid'y. 



LINES TO A POMERANIAN 

PUPFY VALUED AT 3,500 

DOLLARS 

Often as I strain and stew, 

Digging in these dirty ditches, 
I have dared to think of you — 
You and all your riches. 

Lackeys help you on and off; 

Silk's the stuff on which you're lying. 
You have doctors when you cough, 
Priests when you are dying. 

Wrapt in soft and costly furs, 

All sewed up with careful stitches, 
You consort with proper curs 
And with perfumed bitches. 

At your lightest, wheezy bark, 

Haughty women run to feed you ; 

Deaf to all things else, they hark, 

And, what's more, they heed you. 
146 



Battle-Cries 147 

Guarded from the world, you grow 

Sleek and snug in pillowed niches ; 
You will never have to know 
Common ills or itches. 

Lord, but things are queer and odd- 
Queerer still, with you to show it ; 
You're a lucky dog, by God, 
And you do not know it ! 

You don't sweat to struggle free, 

Work in rags and rotting breeches . . . 
Puppy, have a laugh at me 
Digging in the ditches. 



BROADWAY SILHOUETTE 

Like some great flower of the night 
The city blossoms into blaze; 

And there is laughter and delight 
Along these loud and mirthless ways. 

Blazing — with flame that brightens not . . 

While all the floods that stream and spill 
Themselves into this brilliant blot 

Make what is darkness darker still. 



148 



YOUTH MORALIZES 

(1905-1911) 



(For My Mother) 



TO MY MOTHER 

Poor recompense to you were I to fill 
This page with rhyme and rhetoric, to 

display 
Only the poet and thereby betray 

My earliest thoughts for mere poetic skill 

Poor recompense, indeed, were I to thrill 
With my own music, turn to you and say, 
'' I give you these, my verses, let them pay 

For all you gave and all you give me still.'^ 

I am too poor to buy you back the years 

A mother pays for with her dreams and fears. 

For I am rich in nothing but in love. 
So let me live my thanks, so let me be 
Forever in your debt, who gave to me 

The breath of life— and all the joy thereof. 



151 



IN THE NIGHT 

He struggled down the twisting road, 
Lost in the black, barbaric night; 

Stumbling beneath a torturing load, 
Crying, " Alas ! There is no light ! " 

His strength was gone ; his spirit quelled. 

He stopped, and in a desperate mood 
He raised his eyes . . . lo, he beheld 

The stars — a conquering multitude! 



152 



POETRY 

God made the world with rhythm and 
rhyme : 

He set the sun against the moon ; 
He swung the stars to beat in time, 

And sang the universe in tune. 
He gave the seas their mighty tongue, 

He gave the wind its lyric wings. 
And the exulting soul of song 

Was woven through the heart of things. 

To-day this wonder was revealed 

In singing colors, swift and plain. 
I heard it in a daisy-field 

Under the downbeat of the rain. 
The surging streets repeated it, 

The cars intoned it as they ran. . . 
And then I saw how closely knit 

Were God and Poetry with man. 



153 



154 Poetry 

A scrap of sky, a group of trees, 

A tower and a swallow's dart. 
The cadence of a dying breeze. 

Like sudden music swept my heart. 
A laughing child looked up and sprang 

To greet me at the homeward climb. . 
And all about me surged and sang 

The world God made with rhythm and 
rhyme. 



STRANGERS 

Side by side in the crowded train 
Two men were counting the streets; 

The cars crept slowly through the rain 

And the mist grew thick on the blurring pane. 

Side by side in the crowded train 
Two men were counting the streets. 

One thought, " Oh God, must it end in strife; 

A bitter and gasping breath ? " 
The other thought of the new-born life 
That lay that day in the arms of his wife. . . 
And the one was going to welcome Life, 

The other to witness Death. 



155 



THE MYSTERIES 

Three mysteries there will always be : 
The changeless soul of the changing sea, 
The riddle of God in flower and thorn, 
And the mind of a child that is newly born. 

And the smallest of these is the greatest still; 
For the sea can be plumbed to its depths at will, 
And God can be found in the loneliest wild — 
But who shall fathom the mind of a child. 



156 



THE POET 

His soul is like a shining glass, 
A mirror, sensitive and thin; 

Passions that flare and lives that pass 
Through one small life are shown 
therein. 

It mirrors keen and careless mirth ; 

The love that leaps, the lure that dies ; 
Its depths contain the fluent earth, 

The secret and immoderate skies. 

Visions extravagant and pale, 

The soft and sharp desires of men. 

Reflecting these, each threadbare tale 
Grows fresh and eloquent again. . . 

His soul is but a fragile glass 
Revealing what his age has been. 

But it shall live, though all else pass, 

For all of Time is seen therein. 

157 



THE YOUTH MORALIZES 

Yes, it is here ; — this is the street, 

And this the Httle house of hers. 
Again my pulses throb and beat. 

The sharp and curious longing stirs. 
Once more the ancient fevers burn, 

And rack me with forgotten pain. . 
What chance, I wonder, made me turn 

My footsteps to her door again? 

Nothing is changed — the hedge, the 
broom. 
The quaint old flowers, the powdery 
smell ; 
And these, the windows of her room, 

The little room we knew so well. 
How many times we opened wide 

That darkened lattice to the moon, 
And leaned together, side by side, 
And drew in all the generous June ! 
158 



Youth Moralizes 159 

How still, on tiptoe, we would steal 

Breathlessly to that secret room. 
Where gloriously she would reveal 

Herself in starlight, half in gloom. 
Or fall asleep and hear the rain 

Beat lightly, like an eager throng 
Of fairies tapping on the pane. 

To haunt us with a silver song . . . 

And then — our love became a task. 

The rosy glamour turned to gray; 
Faith was a masquerader's mask. 

And Life a bitter holiday. 
It was the end, the acrid morn; 

Love could not hold a loveless mate. 
I laughed and thought of her with scorn ; 

She smiled at me with almost hate. 

For we had only played at love. 

Untouched by passion, free of fears ; 

We never knew that pain could move 
Kindly beneath a weight of tears. 

Surfeit, not grief, came to destroy; 
And only at the end we knew 



i6o The Youth Moralizes 

That, in the very hour of joy. 

Love must have tears and suffering 
too. . . 

And this was taught us long ago — 

Yet, as I watch the moonlight play 
Along the eaves, it seems as though 

I had been here but yesterday. 
Nothing is changed ; the old lamps burn 

Where once we sat and watched the 
rain. . . 
What chance, I wonder, made me turn 

My footsteps to her door again f 



A PORTRAIT 

God being idle on a summer's day 
Fashioned a woman arrogantly fair; 
Subtle and soft, He made her seem to wear 

The whole world's beauties to the world's dis- 
may. 

And, as He watched her body bend and sway, 
He set the rose upon her lips to share 
A milder breath than ever South-winds bear 

From magic haunts to greet the languid May. 

Thus He made thee, my love, with liberal care 
So rich, so radiant, that from every pole 
The angels came to worship and extol, 

While He Himself could only sit and stare. . . 

And, lost in wonder as He made thee there, 
God in His negligence forgot the soul. 



l6i 



AN OLD SONG 

O SWEET and cool is the redstart's song 

As it scatters the heat ; 
And sweet is the whisper of winds along 

A child-crowded street ; 
Sweet is the music when lovers rejoice, 

And Song may beguile — 
But sweeter still is my true love's voice 

And her blossoming smile. 



O soft and swift are the feet of Spring 

As she dances alone; 
And soft is the scent of flowers that cling 

To a sheltering stone. 
Light as a butterfly that dips 

Through a blue abyss, — 
And softer still are my true love's lips 

And her silken kiss. 
162 



Youth Moralizes 163 

O wide and vast is the star-filled sky 

And the starless sea ; 
Strong is the life that surges by, 

Resistless and free ; 
And vast are the circlings of suns that move 

To a flaming goal — 
But greater than all is my true love*s love 

And her fiery soul. 



A SINGER 

If the wings of my song were so strong as to 
lift me from under 
The rhythms and regular rhymes that are all 
of my skill, 
Would I soar, would I rise in the fullness of 
power? I wonder . . . 
Could I ever give up the old longing to war- 
ble and trill ? 

The hawk and the sea-gull that circle in con- 
fident splendor 
Dazzle and thrill me; but I am no sweeper of 
stars. 
I am one with the finch that has only her song 
to commend her, 
The thrush or the prisoned canary, still lyric 
for all of its bars. 



164 



ROSES 

I DREAMT I heard a dying rose 
Speak to the deathless night : 
" O love, this is the tearful close 
Of our impossible dreams, and those 

Desires beyond delight. 
Yet ere I die, to give me rest. 
Take me once more upon your breast ; 
Hold me a burning moment there 
And kiss my lips and call me fair." 

And as she spoke, I woke to weep ; 

The dream dissolved in tears. 
Remembered words . . . they robbed my 

sleep 
And echoed still, and lived to keep 

Their poignance through the years. 
I know when last I heard those words 
Struggling like torn and wounded birds, 
Whose cries beat on my heart like blows, 
They were not spoken by a rose. 
165 



NINETEEN AND APRIL 

God be praised for April weather — 

All the world's carousing now ; 
Slipping every tie and tether, 

Leaping from the winter's slough. 
Earth-warm breezes faintly blowing, 

Buds that dare to burst at last. 
Rippling skies and green things growing 

Stir me like a bugle blast. 

All the pagan in me waking, 

Runs to dance with feet of fire; 
And my heart, a year's thirst slaking, 

Seeks the well of my desire. 
Quicker fly my pulses, quicker 

Runs the world with naked glee ; 
And the tree-toad and the flicker 

And the winds are one with me. 

m 



Youth Moralizes 167 

To be lying, swathed with grasses, 

In some softly-stirring w^ood, 
Where each gipsy breeze that passes 

Hails my laugh of brotherhood. 
Or to feel rriy body, slipping, 

Cleave the water as I sink; 
Then to shoot up cool and, dripping, 

Fling myself upon the brink. . . 

After all these sober ages, 

Madness fresh each April brings ; 
What to me are strife and sages 

When the first cock-robin sings. . . 
I exult like one possessed, I'm 

Drunken with the wine of youth. 
Spring, you are the glad year's best time ! 

Life, you are Life's only truth ! 



IN A MINOR KEY 

Love, when I die, your thought of me 
Shall make the earth a magic bed. 

Though buried in the deepest sea, 
I shall not join the weary dead. 

For you shall make me live and rise, 
Your thought shall be my blood and 
breath — 

And only when your memory dies 
Will I too die — a double death. 



I68 



CREATION 

Man in the making — God watched him with 
pride, 
Striving to shake off the marks of the clod ; 
" How can I make him more splendid," He 
sighed, 
" Shape him still more in the image of 
God?" 
Then, as His thought, like a flame, lit the sky, 
God turned and spoke to the angels that wait, 
" Lo, he shall thrill with it, even as I ; — 
He shall be godly, for he shall create." 

Thus was the furious measure of bliss 
Kindled in men, an insatiate fire. . . 

God's very joy is no wilder than this 
Lust of creation, this grappling desire. 

The passion that surges like wave upon wave — 
Imperative travail, this hand at the heart. . . 

Aye, He was God when He lavishly gave 

To the mother her child, to the artist his art. 
169 



A GLEE FOR FEBRUARY 

Oh, sing out a song when the nights are long 

And the evening hour is chill; 
When the wind goes by with a muffled cry, 

And the clouds in the sky are still. 
When never a bird in the land is heard, 

And every voice has a rift; 
When the rivers freeze and the trembling trees 
Stand up to their knees in the drift. 
Chorus: 
Then it's hi, ho, hi, when the woods all lie 
A-huddling up 'neath a freezing sky — 
And it's ho, hi, ho, when the North-winds 
blow. 
And the whole world sleeps in the deeps of 
the snow. 

So a carol gay when the dawn comes gray 

And the morning air is swift ; 
When the fields of white are a cheerful sight, 

And the clear cold night is a gift! 
170 



Youth Moralizes 171 

When the breath of the fir and the pine-trees 
stir 
All our days with a poignant thrill ; 
And the Winter's soul is a brimming bowl 
Which we pledge with a whole heart's will. 
Chorus: 
Then ifs hi, ho, hi, when the woods all lie 
A-huddling up 'neath a freezing sky — 
And it's ho, hi, ho, when the North-winds 
blow, 
And the whole world sleeps in the deeps of 
the snow. 



MARCH MOOD 

Here's Spring come again, the old harlot- 
Back to her haunts again ; 
And the blood of the world runs scarlet 
With the harsh desire, the shattering pain. 
Yet — here are the same old tricks : 
The smile and the side-long glances, 
The stale and hackneyed romances, 
The magics that do not mix. . . 
The same, old stock in trade — 
The blushes and airs of a maid 
That flies from a bashful pursuer, 
While she herself is the wooer 
That will be obeyed ! 

Tripping the tawdry measure. 

Singing her worn-out song; 

She accosts you with tales of her treasure. 

Glib patter of love and of pleasure; 

And you, you are carried along. . . 
172 



Youth Moralizes 173 

But look at the paint on her cheeks, 
It is thick with thousands of years; 
And notice her voice as she speaks, 
It is trembling with age, not her tears. 
She is old, lad, believe, she is old — 
She is hardened and bitter and cold; 
A wanton that has no more fire in her soul 
Than a burnt bit of coal ; 
A vampire that sends the blood coursing, 

and then 
Sucks out the spirits of men. . . 

But the fool is still flattered and blinded, 

And the poet still babbles of bUss; 

And even the wise and the sensible-minded 

Are bewitched by her kiss. 

And, though she is old as the Winter, 

And her insolent beauty is shed. 

They will clasp her and rhyme her and tint 

her 
Till the last of her lovers is dead! 



OCTOBER 

On the altar of the world 
All the hopes of Spring are furled; 
All of Autumn's gifts are spread 
Where the Summer rests her head. 
Broken beauty, ravished youth, 
Ghosts of passion, shards of truth, 
Old desires and visions lost, — 
All of these are heaped and tossed 
On the sacrificial pile, 
Where in majesty a while 
Summer sleeps in solemn state ; 
Sleeps upon a wide, ornate 
Bed of balsam, oak and larch. . . 
Nature then applies the torch. 

First a spark — then leaps among 
Oak and beech a tiny tongue ; 
Darts of gold and tips of yellow 
Touch the branches of the willow. 
174 



Youth Moralizes 175 

And the growing color spreads 
Into fierce and flaming reds, 
Kindling bush and brake and brier 
With the surging, sacred fire. 
Maple clusters all aglow. 
Slim white birches in a row. 
Trembling in the woodland ways, 
Burst into a golden blaze. 



Even slender grass and fern 
Droop and wither as they burn. 
While the helpless earth is lost 
In this sweeping holocaust. 
Now the wakened winds run free, 
Swinging brands from tree to tree, 
And the fire spreads until 
Every mountainside and hill. 
Every hedge and garden close. 
In the wildest radiance glows — 
Till the flames that fly unfurled 
Leap and inundate the world. 
And the martyred Summer lies 
Burning with her sacrifice. . . 



176 October 

Why this immolation; why 
Wrapped in flame does Summer lie, 
Till the world is barren, and 
Only ashes strew the land. 
Is this saintly death, the birth 
Of another richer earth 
That will quicken from the sere 
Leaves and ruin scattered here. 
Does the dying Summer know 
That, beneath the embers' glow, 
Unborn daisies wait, and bold 
Violets that dare the cold; 
That from Summer's sacrifice 
Spring eternally will rise. 



IN ABSENCE 

The rain here has a sullen sound — 

Far off and somehow thinned 
The lights are seen ; and with a bound 

Up leaps an angry, baying wind. 
There is a menace in the sea ; 

The stars take on an insolent light ; 
A veil of evil mystery 

Enshrouds the blinded night. 

The rain dies down, the night grows 
clear ; 

The wind is hushed — and yet 
The stillness wakes a baseless fear, 

The very strangeness seems a threat. 
I dread this unfamiliar sea ; 

The whimpering, half-human moan. 
And I could face infinity 

Laughing with you, my own ! 



177 



PLAZA SQUARE 

(Late September Twilight) 

Now earth and sky melt into one 

Great symphony of pearl and gray — 
We bless the cool of dusk, the dun 
Departure of the fevered day; 
Happy that Summer on her flaming 
way 

Has gone. 

The trees, against the shifting light, 

Become fantastic ; one may trace 
A screen of stars, a network bright 
Where worlds and branches interlace 
A mystic veil across the cloudy face 
Of night. 
178 



Youth Moralizes 179 

Now it is evening; in the park 

The lights, like burning drops of dew. 
Flame through the trees ; and every spark 
Falls in the lake to form anew 
A web of tattered brilliance woven 
through 

The dark. 

And, like an army all awry, 

With broken hopes and banners torn, 
The people pass, and in each eye 

I see the joy for which they mourn — 
The unknown rapture stirs that is 
not born 

To die. 



TWO REBELS 



EVE SPEAKS 



Pause, God, and ponder, ere Thou judgest me. 
Though it be doomsday, and the trampling 

winds 
Rush blindly through the stark and cowering 

skies. 
Bearing Thy fearful mandate like a sword, 
I do not tremble ... I am unafraid . . . 
Though the red flame of wrath lick up the 

worlds, 
And dizzy stars fall in a golden rain; 
Though, in an agonizing fear of life. 
The summoned spirits, torn from gentle 

graves. 
Whirl at Thy feet or fly before Thy frown. 
Like leaves that run before a scornful breeze, 
I do not fly . . . My soul is unafraid. . . 
183 



184 Eve Speaks 

Years have swept over me and in the wash 
Of foaming centuries have been forgot. 
Yet still my soul remembers Paradise, 
That perfect echo of Thy gentler mood, . . 
Wrapped in a drowsy luxury we lived, 
Beauty our food and idleness our pillow. 
Day after day, we walked beneath Thy smile; 
And as w^e wandered through the glittering 

hours. 
Our souls unfolding with the friendly earth, 
Eden grew richer to our ardent eyes. 
With every step, a clump of trees, a star, 
An undiscovered flower, a hill, a cry, 
A new, wild sunset or a wilder bird, 
Entered our lives and grew a part of us. 
Lord, there was naught but happiness — and 

yet, 
Though Adam gloried in the world's content, 
And sunned himself in rich complacency. 
The thought that there was something more 

than joy, 
Beyond perfection, greater than singing peace 
And tranquil happiness, vexed all my hours. . . 
Here in a garden, without taint or care, 



Two Rebels 185 

We played like children, we who were not chil- 
dren. 
Swaddled with ease, lulled with Thy softest 

dreams, 
We lived in perfect calm, who were not per- 
fect. . . 
Eden was made for angels — not for Man. . . 
Often the thought of this would come to me 
When Adam's songs seemed empty of all mirth, 
When he grew moody and the reckless fire 
Leaped in his eyes and died ; or when I saw 
Him lying at my side — ^his brawny arms 
Knotted with strength; his bosom deep and 

broad. 
His hands tight-clenched, his mouth firm, even 

in sleep. 
Here was a body made for mighty building, 
Here was a brain designed to dream and 

mould — 
To waste such energy on such a life! 
I could not think it. Seeing him, I knew 
Man made for Eden only — not for more — 
Was made in vain. . . I claimed my Adam, 
God; 



1 86 Eve Speaks 

Claimed him for fiercer things and lustier 

worlds, 
Immoderate measures, insolent desires ; 
Claimed him for great and strengthening 

defeats. . . 
He was but one of many things to Thee — 
A cunning lump of clay, a speaking clod — 
One of a universe of miracles. 
Each day a fresh creation was to Thee; 
Thou hadst infinity to shape and guard — 
I only Adam. 

Lying awake one night beneath the Tree, 
I heard him sighing in a fitful sleep. 
A cold, disdainful moon mocked my unrest; 
A night-bird circled out beyond the wood. 
Never did Eden seem so much a prison. . . 
Past the great gates I glimpsed the unknown 

world, 
Lying unfettered in majestic night. 
I saw the broadening stream hold out its arms ; 
The proud hills called me and the lure 
Of things unheard, unguessed at, caught my 

soul. 



Two Rebels 187 

Adam was made for this — and this for him. 
The peace of Eden grew intolerable. 
Better the long uncertainty of toil, 
The granite scorn of the experienced world, 
And failure upon failure ; better these 
Than this enforced and rotting indolence. 
Adam should know his godhood; he should 

feel 
The weariness of work, and pride of it; 
The labor of creation, and its joy. 
His hands should rear the dream, his sinews 

think ; 
And in a rush of power his strength should 

rise 
And rend and tame and wrest its secret 

from 
The sweating, energetic earth; 
Until his rude and stumbling soul could grasp 
Conquering and unconquerable joys . . . 
So should his purpose work among the stars; 
Face, without fear, contemptuous centuries ; 
Meet the astonished heavens with a laugh. 
And answer God with God's own words and 

deeds. 



1 88 Eve Speaks 

One thing alone would give all this to him, 
One thing would cleave the sealed and stub- 
born rocks, 
Harness the winds, yoke the unbridled seas — 
Knowledge, the force and shaper of the world. 
And so I knew that we should eat — and learn. 

II 

Into the world we went, Adam and I, 
Bound by a new and strange companionship. 
For in the battle with a hostile earth. 
His were the victories, mine were all defeats. 
His was the lust of doing : a furrow tilled, 
A wily beast ensnared, a flint well-turned; 
A headlong chase, a hut or trap well-built. 
The joy of things accomplished Adam knew. 
Was there a hunt — there was a feast for him ; 
Was there a harvest — there was rest thereafter ; 
Was Adani hurt — there was my soothing care ; 
Was Adam tired — there were my lips and 

arms. . . 
Aye, Lord, though I cried out against this thing 
That made me Adam's servant, not his mate, 
Yet it was just — for into endless strife 



Two Rebels 189 

My will had plunged him; therefore all the 

years 
I tended, comforted, encouraged him 
With prayers and quickening passion, till he 

knew 
The dazzling, harsh divinity of Love. . . 
God, Thou didst make a creature out of dust, 
But / created Man. . . I was to him 
A breast, soft shoulders, an impelling brain; 
I was his spur, his shield, his stirrup-cup; 
I was his child, his strumpet and his wife. . . 
A world of women have I been to him, 
To him and all the myriad sons of Adam, 
And all that they remember is my shame ! 
All times by all men have I been betrayed — 
They have belittled and disgraced my deed 
That made them seek until they found them- 
selves ; 
Have turned my very purposes against me. 
Knowing not that I help them unawares. 
Yes, I have driven them — that they too might 

drive ; 
Have held their chains — till they could tear 
them free; 



190 Eve Speaks 

Have ruled and urged them with a hardened 

hand, 
That they might find the stony world less hard. 

And what was my reward when they had 

won:- — 
Freedom, that I had bought with torturing 

bonds ? 
Faith, that is stronger than the iron years ? 
Love, with a warmth that heals as well as 

burns ? 
Or comradeship, the golden hour of love. 
Clean as the candid gaze of stars and children? 
Such things were not my portion. Sneers and 

taunts. 
Mixed with the pity of a tolerant lord; 
My name turned to base uses, made to serve 
A twisted symbol and a mockery. 
Or was I given in some more amorous mood, 
A brief endearment or an easy smile, 
A jewel; perhaps an hour of casual love — 
These were the precious coin in which they 

paid. 
And thus, to either concubine or wife, 



Two Rebels 191 

They eased their conscience — and their throb- 
bing lust. 
They stormed through countries brandishing 

their deeds, 
Boasting a gross and transient mastery 
To girls, who listened with indulgent ears 
And laughing hearts. . . Lord, they were ever 

blind— 
Women have they known, hut never Woman. 

Ill 

God, when the rosy world first learned to crawl 
About the floor of heaven, wert Thou not 

proud ! 
Though Thou hast planned a heaven of suns to 

swing 
About Thy skies, like censers whirling praise; 
Though Thou hast made immense and sterile 

Space 
Busy with life, a deathless miracle; 
And now hast gathered up eternity, 
Rolling it in the hollow of Thy hand, — 
Was there one sudden thrill in all of Time 
As keen as that fierce tugging at Thy heart, 



192 Eve Speaks 

When first the new-born world was held by 

Thee 
Close to Thy breast to feel its small heart 

beat. 
Not all the fervor of ten milHon Springs 
Moved Thee so much, because it was so weak. 
Errant and spoiled, untamed and contrary, 
Thou sawest it grow, in fear no less than pride. 
It was Thy pampered child, Thy favorite 

star. . . 
God, so it was with Adam — he was mine. 
Mine to protect, to nurture, to impel; 
My lord and lover, yes; but first my child. 
Man remains Man, but Woman is the Mother. 
There is no mystery she dare not read; 
No fearful fruit can grow but she must taste; 
No secret knowledge can be held from her ; 
For she must learn all things that she may 

teach. 

How wilt Thou judge me then, who am, like 

Thee, 
Creator, shaper of man's destinies. . . 
Aye, more, I made their purpose vaster still. 



Two Rebels 193 

Thou wouldst have left them in a torpid 
Eden — 

I sent them out to grapple with the world ! 

I give Thee back Thy planet now, O God, 

An earth made strong by disobedience; 

Resplendent, built with fire and furious dreams. 

A world no angel host could hope to shape ; 

Invulnerable, spacious and erect. 

Not a vast garden rich with futile charm ; 

But streaming continents and crowded seas, 

Extravagant cities, marshaled mountain- 
chains. 

And every windy corner of the air 

Filled with the excellent enterprise of man. 

A world both promise and fulfilment. — See, 

Men's thoughts translated into lights and 
towers ; 

Visions uplifted into stone and steel: 

Labor and Life, a seething hymn of praise. 

This is Thy clamorous and thundering clay ; 

This, Thy created, groping world — and 
mine. . . 

Pause, God, and ponder ere Thou judgest me. 



MOSES ON SINAI 

Once more my solitudes ; 

Once more the quiet business of the earth. 

After the savage heat, 

To come to this again ; 

After the scorn and shouting ignorance, 

To feel the comfort of the whispering grass, 

The sun's concern, the smoothing little winds. 

The green and silent sympathy of trees. 

Here I am cool again. . . 

Last week — or was it yesterday — I sat 

Here, on this very rock, another man; 

A disillusioned leader, a lost hope, 

A doubter struggling with a dogmatist. 

Laws ? Were there laws enough ? Too many 

... or too few? . . . 
With Nature's own commands what call was 

there 
For me to fix and formulate? 
194 



Two Rebels 195 

Man was not made to live with barren laws — 
And yet to live without them ? . . . 

At the foot 
Of this impassive hill the tablets lay ; 
The broken fragments shining at the sun. 
Was this the end of liberty, to break 
And splinter at an idol's golden feet ? 
Had I been led to lead them all to this? . . . 

Glad to escape the mill-race of my thoughts 
My mind ran back to Egypt, to the fields 
Where, as a boy, I saw my people working 
Dumbly and in their chains. 
At first I could not see their faces, they 
Were turned away from me and toward the 

ground ; 
All that I saw was backs, great, oily backs 
And broad and bleeding shoulders; 
Arms that were made to thresh like flails 
And bodies scarred with whips and lined with 

hate. 
And then I saw their eyes — such dull and large 
Pathetic eyes that showed the soul of man 
Stunted into a child's by slavery. 



196 Moses on Sinai 

My people ! Cowed and broken in their youth ! 
A race of leaders stumbling in the yoke; 
Ox-like, submissive — could these things be 

Jews? 
These, the appointed scatterers of the flame? 
Something leaped up and roused me like a cry. 
Tightening every nerve with one resolve- — 
To square those shoulders, straighten up that 

back; 
Send the proud vigor singing through the 

blood ; 
To wake the kings and prophets in their bones, 
To set my people free ! 

How slow they crept, 

Those plodding years, when I ranged through 

the land. 
Appealing, storming, urging and reviling 
At little gatherings and gaping crowds. 
In markets, alleys and the open fields, 
" Workers rebel ! Rise and strike off your 

chains ! 
There is no freedom till the hands are free ! " 
And to this rallying call they came at last, 



Two Rebels 197 

Slowly and doggedly, — but still they came ; 
Night after night they met, year after year. 
Singly, in groups, by hundreds, till they stood 
A race of toilers strengthened by a dream, 
A mighty army gathered by a word 
And waiting for the word to be a deed, 
To call them into action. Then it came, 
The summons — and they followed like a fire, 
Followed it out of Egypt, out of bondage; 
A sudden strike toward liberty. 

Out of the land 
They walked and left the harrow in the 

field. 
The huge stone swinging in the idle crane. 
The mortar in the trough, the rusty clay 
Heaped up before the buildings — left it all 
And went into the desert, heads erect. 
Out of the darkness toward a struggling dawn. 

A while the vision drove them; they breathed 

deep. 
Filled with the whole adventure of the flight, 
The gaiety of action, the relief 



198 Moses on Sinai 

Of stretching spaces after servitude. . . 
And then the murmurs started, grumblings 

rose ; 
Even the elders argued and complained : 
Why had I brought them here; why had they 

come 
To this dry plain? What spell had made them 

leave 
Their clustered homes where they at least could 

hear 
The happy noise of trade ; the pleasant hum 
A city makes at night; the sound of wheels; 
Or smell all day the sweet and acrid smells 
Of crowded streets made pungent by the blend 
Of wines and parchment, perfume, dust, and 

spice. 
Or let the eye grow dizzy with the blaze 
Of brilliant silks, where every flaming booth 
Flung out its colors like a flag of joy. 
Lead us, they pleaded, back to this — 
Back to the cheer and comfort of our bonds; 
We are not ready for our bleak release. 
A happy slave, they cried, is better than 
A miserable freeman. Take us back. . . 



Two Rebels 199 

Anger surged through me first. I clenched my 

fists 
And swore they needed to be whipped, not led. 
Unworthy and ungrateful, they should go 
Back to their burdens, back beneath the yoke, 
Teamed with their brother beasts. You fools, 

I stormed, 
You cattle, you shall bellow louder still; 
You shall go back to Egypt — and alone ! 

And then I saw their eyes again, those deep 

And frightened eyes. I knew them all 

For what they were — children and gropers; 

yes, 
A tribe of children stumbling through the 

night. 
They needed hands to help them, posts to guide 
White clouds by daylight, fires through the 

dark. 
Something to shape their desperate want — a 

Law! 

So, on this very rock, I sat and carved 
Their human need. Sharpening dull desires 



200 Moses on Sinai 

To ten commandments, ten austere beliefs 
That they could aim at, cling to, struggle 

toward. 
What days I worked — choosing and cutting 

down, 
Making a god of laws to fit their minds ; 
One they might grasp and cherish as their 

own. . . 
And then I brought the tablets down the hill. 

As I went down, the skies became a torch ; 
The world poured gold about my feet, a shower 
Of sunlight turned the fields to topaz lakes 
Washed with a foam of daisies; sudden rocks 
Sparkled with brilliance from a thousand 

facets 
And the whole plain shone like a yellow sea. 
And what were these that danced, like bronze 

in motion, 
The sunlight glancing from their polished 

thighs, 
Those golden men about a golden calf, — 
They were my people ! ... All the glory died, 
The sunlight tarnished, arxd I only saw 



Two Rebels 201 

A herd of silly tribesmen singing songs 
And romping round an idol mostly brass, 
Hailing the rough-cast fetish as a god. 
Foolish and savage ! Would they never learn ! 
I thundered at them, elbowed through the mob 
And hurled my tablets at their shining toy. 
I looked to see the idol fall — instead 
It was the stone that broke ; the tablet crashed 
And split in fragments, scattering the laws 
At their astonished feet. Was it a sign; 
A symbol for the future ? Could man live 
Always with threatening strictures and taboos? 
Or must the stony admonitions break 
Upon the golden frenzy of his joy? . . . 
But now the tumult ceased, the cymbals fell. 
And even Miriam floating among the girls 
As lightly as the moon among the stars. 
Grew frightened at my frown, and ran to me. 
Joining the trembling and bewildered crowd. 
Some half -unconscious sense of sudden shame, 
A swift revulsion from their lusty mirth 
Swept them above themselves and so toward 

me. 
Caught between anger and astonishment 



202 Moses on Sinai 

I looked at them, while youths and bearded 
men 

Turned red and clung about my knees and 
cried, 

" Lift up thy rod, oh Moses, we beseech. 

And smite us for our sins. Give your com- 
mands 

And we shall follow them and keep the Word 

That drives us on with power and punishment. 

Go up into the mountain and bring down 

Your laws for us again." 

Bewildered still, 

I left them clustered meekly at the base 

And started up the rocky climb once more. 

II 

And now — here in my spacious solitudes 
With sagely nodding flowers at my feet, 
And the untroubled skies above me, I am cool ; 
Soothed by a new and quiet confidence. 
Seeing the lawless victories of the earth, 
The sweet rebellion of the. vagrant rose. 
The calm and sweeping triumph of the grass, 
The tiger*$ leap, the mating of the birds, 



Two Rebels 203 

The strength of streams, the heedless laugh of 
winds, 

And all the happy anarchy of life, 

I saw the world held in compassionate hands; 

And in its singing beauty I could feel 

The great beneficence that stirred it all. 

I knew that Life was good — and needed noth- 
ing more. . . 

And yet these laws : my people needed them 
For they were children still, the loosened bonds 
Had freed their hands, but not their hearts ; 
Their souls were yet in bondage, yet enslaved ; 
They still were chained to lust and apathy, 
Chained to a wheel of fantasies and fears, 
Chained to themselves. They were not ready 

for 
The blaze of freedom with its fierce white light. 
There should be strengthening struggle; they 

must learn 
Control before they could go uncontrolled. 
Doubt and disaster first, before the time 
When every man may take the old commands 
And break them lightly as a hoop of straw; 



204 Moses on Sinai 

When men can walk upright and hand in hand 
With their desires, fearless, frank, and high ; 
True to their own ennobled impulses. 
Obedient only to the law of Beauty, 
Growing as clean and freely as a tree; 
Sharing the mandates heeded by the sun, 
And kept, in splendor and authority. 
By all the tides and every rushing star. 

The time would come — but not for those alive. 

Meanwhile — the Law. . . 

Here is a smooth, flat stone. 

It takes the chisel nicely and the words 

Will stand out bright and boldly. To begin: 

I am the Lord thy God, which have brought 

thee 
Out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of 

bondage. . . 



REVEILLE 

What sudden bugle calls us in the night 
And wakes us from a dream that we had 
shaped; 
Flinging us sharply up against a fight 
We thought we had escaped. 

It is no easy waking, and we win 

No final peace; our victories are few. 
But still imperative forces pull us in 

And sweep us somehow through. 

Summoned by a supreme and confident power 
That wakes our sleeping courage like a blow. 
We rise, half-shaken, to the challenging hour. 
And answer it — and go. . . 



205 



ROBERT FROST 

'An authentic original voice in literature." — The Atlantic 



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A BOY'S WILL Mr. Frost's First Volume of Poetry 

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